Facing
by ephemereal
Summary: Seeing is believing. Post movie. Complete.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: So here it is. The first chapter of the novel I've been promising you guys for a little over a month now. This is set post-movie, and is a lost more like the Hellblazer graphic novels than the movie is. It's actually kind of like a cross between X-Files and Constantine, though you won't see any other characters.

I realize this first chapter is probably different from anything you've ever read before in this section. Please don't let that turn you off to the entire fic. I promise you, if you stick with it you will eventually figure out what's going on. And no, the whole thing is not written in stream-of-consciousness. That would give me one major headache.

A huge thank you to ZeldaDragon for helping me figure out what the heck I'm doing with this and not getting mad at me for asking question after question.

Also, cookies for Bagpipes5k2 and BohemainCane04.

And um…cookie _dough_?...for all the people who reviewed the two one-shots that precede this novel. If you haven't read them, you might want to.

I don't own Constantine. At least, not until they announce when the DVD will be released. Then I will be running to the store and buying him as quickly as possible.

Enjoy.

Daydreamer731

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Chapter 1 

_Ravenscar. Night. A too-bright neon-lit –straight ahead corridor. Amazing how hospital corridors never curve. A maze of parallel paths, never bending, never coming any closer together. Incredible how people can get so lost in a maze of uncurving hallways. _

_A watercolor painting on the wall—some mountains. A sunset. Children's drawings, chilling in the knowledge that each and every one of the artists is terminal. One particularly good one, made in fingerpaint and pieces of paper—a butterfly, wings scorched, fluttering limply above the wreckage of a fire._

_Somewhere down the hall, the click of a latch and a door opens a crack. An inhalation of surprise—this door isn't supposed to be unlocked. A face in the shadows, filled with fear and a touch of exhilaration. A face that hasn't seen the world outside Ravenscar's Mental Hygiene ward in years. A face filled with hope, an all but alien emotion in this place. _

_A moment longer, a baited breath, then the figure appears in the hallway._

_A woman, middle-aged, silvering blonde hair. Pale skin, too pale, made that way from depression and lack of sunlight. Blue eyes, also too pale. This place has taken the color from them, bleached them until they are nearly transparent. Only the veins left, bloated little red veins, swollen and gorged on too many tears. Fat veins thrive in the eyes of grief-stricken people._

_Another beat, the woman waiting for the proverbial shit to hit the fan. Something must be wrong here. That door is never unlocked. Something unlocked it and that something did it for a reason. She knows she is not alone here. It shines in her face, shows in the wrinkles turned a pale sickly green by the neon lights._

_A noise, halfway down the corridor and behind, something strange and echoing. The woman turns frightened beyond belief. Something coming. Coming to take away her freedom. Again. Like the others. Like everything. Her own private sentinel, always watching. Ever-present. Guarding. Denying. Separating her from her one chance at freedom. Happiness._

_Trapped. Always trapped. Invisible bars on the backs of tired eyelids, dancing greenorangebrown, tiny throbbing, struggling blood-vessel bars at night just before sleep comes._

_Penance. A terrible sentence for crimes committed in the naivety of youth. Death forever looming behind every door, around every corner. Safer behind bars, but miserable. Better now to have five minutes of doomed pleasure than an eternity more of imprisoned monotony._

_A hand on the siding of the doorway wall, for only a moment, and then it is gone. There is nothing. The woman looks and looks, but there is absolutely no sign of the hand, solid only a moment before. But the feeling remains, the feeling that something is still there, still in the hallway. Coming closer. A shape, though invisible—a presence, really—a sort of sucking-in of the air around the doorway. Utterly hidden and blatantly clear. _

_Fear._

_Tightening in the chest, constricted breathing. A feeling of something coming. From behind. _

_The woman turns again, not fast enough, never fast enough, always just too late. _

_Nothing. Quiet. Too quiet, and then—_

_A knife. _

_Hanging in mid-air. There. Impossible. And utterly present._

_Seeing is believing._

_Closer and then—_

_No, not a knife. A saw. A bone-saw, the kind that belongs in the morgue. The kind that does unspeakable things to poor innocent bodies, the blind doctors use to do unspeakable things to barely-cold corpses while shell-shocked spirits watch in mute horror. A grisly welcome to the carnage of the afterlife._

_The woman tries to run, and collides with something. Something hard. An iron bar, hanging next to the saw. She falls, unconscious, and the saw descends._

_Crimson, seeping out onto the white tile floor. Color in the barren bleached-bone landscape of the desert that is Ravenscar. _

_Blood._

_Life, draining away. _

_Only a matter of time._

_A lifetime erased in the span of a few seconds._

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Review please! 


	2. The Crime

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed my first chapter! This is probably much more like what you were expecting from a novel, right? Enjoy.

WARNING: This chapter gets a little bit gross. If you're going to be offended, don't read, but I don't really think it's that big a deal. If you were okay with the movie you shouldn't have any problem here.

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Chapter 2 

_Ravenscar Mental Hygiene Ward_

_Los Angeles, California_

_10:13 AM_

_October 13, 2005_

"Now _that,_" said Dr. Leslie Archer, staring at the x-ray films, "is a Goddamn genuine miracle."

John Constantine stared at the image of his own lungs projected larger than life on the screen and couldn't help but smile. They looked like a pair of wings, he thought—white and nearly translucent. A month ago he couldn't have imagined he would ever see one of his x-rays looking like this again. The look on Dr. Archer's face was just the icing on the cake. She had insisted on taking the x-rays three separate times just to make sure they were accurate.

"Someone up there sure likes you," she marveled, looking skyward and crossing herself.

Constantine shook his head at the irony of her assumption. He guessed he had to be the only person alive who had received the help of a miracle from the Devil.

"So I take it you're finally going to quit smoking?" asked Archer dryly. "Or are you still gonna be lookin' for ways to do yourself in?"

Constantine held up a pack of nicotine gum, glaring at her.

"Oh ye of little faith. Jesus, I'm not _that _stupid."

"I was hoping not," said Archer.

He sighed then, turning serious again as he remembered why he'd come here in the first place.

"So if it's such a miracle," he muttered, trying to sound nonchalant, "Why am I hacking up my guts again?"

He'd been fine for the first couple of weeks, but the cough had gradually come creeping back. Scared, he'd ignored it as long as possible, but it had finally become too much.

Dr. Archer rolled her eyes at him. That was a good sign, he told himself, trying to shake the feeling of unease gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

"Because, Mr. Constantine," she answered, her voice filled with an odd mix of condescension and amusement, "you seem to have contracted a respiratory infection. They're rather common this time of year. You'll need to lay off on late night gallivanting, but you should be fine in a couple of weeks."

Constantine lowered his gaze to the ground and bit back an equally sharp retort as he realized how stupid of him it had been to jump to the worst possible conclusion about his illness. Then again, when it came to his luck, the worst possible conclusion was usually also the right one. Still, it wouldn't do him any good to get into a fight with Archer at this point.

"That's um…that's good to hear," he muttered lamely.

Archer offered him her most winning Doctor-knows-all smile and held out a nearly illegible piece of paper.

"Get this prescription filled as soon as possible."

"Thanks." He took it from her and started to leave.

"You need to _rest_," Archer called after him. "I mean it, John! I know how you are!"

Constantine shook his head and strode off down the corridor, trying to lose the feeling of unease that always came with being in this place. The corridors were too clean; the fluorescent lights bleached everything to a yellow-greenish hue. The atmosphere here accentuated dark circles under eyes, made faces look universally emaciated. He stifled a shudder, thinking that just being here too much would be enough to make anyone sick.

About halfway out of the hospital, he ran right smack into a police barricade across the corridor. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly plowed right through the yellow Crime Scene tape, but he was stopped by a hand on his chest just in time.

"Hey, watch it, you!"

Constantine jerked his head up to see a young man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a complexion that made him look like a ghost under the harsh light. The face, arranged in an expression of authority, condescension, and masked fear was familiar.

"Detective Weiss," said Constantine, offering a mock-charming smile. "What a _pleasant_ surprise. Honestly, I _enjoyed_ our time together, but I didn't think you _cared_ enough to come _looking_ for me. I mean, you never even _called_ the next _morning_."

Weiss made a sound of disgust deep in his throat and recoiled. The hair on his head practically stood up in indignation.

"Mr. Constantine," the young man spat. He'd done his best to get the truth about the incident in Ravenscar's hydrotherapy ward out of Constantine, but had never managed to yield anything more than enigmatic babbling.

"Something I can help with?" Constantine asked, looking around past the crime scene tape to where several people were bending over something on the floor. He could barely make out the purplish stains of dried blood on the white tile near their feet.

"Get the hell out of here," muttered Weiss. "And let my people do their job."

"Weiss? What's going on here?" The voice came from behind and over his left shoulder, but Constantine recognized it immediately. Even if he hadn't, the look on Weiss' face was a dead giveaway—a slight blush, eyes bugging out dangerously wide. Constantine grinned and turned to face their new arrival.

She looked flustered, exhausted—as though she'd dressed in a hurry. Her light blue blouse was partially untucked, auburn hair loose and slightly frizzy. She looked paler than usual, and the dark circles under her eyes suggested she hadn't slept in weeks. Still, there was something in her gaze, an intensity that seemed to bring a wave of claustrophobic heat over his entire body.

"Angela," he said, nodding matter-of-factly.

"John." She matched his tone, completely deadpan.

Weiss looked back and forth between the two of them in an almost comical gesture. He seemed to sense that there was something there in their locked gazes, something he could never understand.

"There's a…um…" stammered Weiss.

"A murder, according to the call I got," Angela interrupted.

"Yes. A murder. And it's rather…well, why don't you just take a look." Weiss held up the tape for her to duck under, glaring at Constantine as if daring him to follow. He didn't. Instead he stood and watched as Angela went over to the body and knelt down in the center of the clump of other detectives. She stayed where she was long enough to lift the sheet and look under, then practically bolted back to where he stood on the other side of the barricade. She was shaking, he noticed, as he held up the tape for her to come back under.

Angela just shook her head at him and took the tape out of his hand, holding it up from her side.

"I think…John, you need to see this too." She waited just long enough for him to bend under the tape, then let it snap back and made her way over to the body, waving away the other cops who protested at Constantine's approach. "He's with me."

He had just long enough to realize that he liked the sound of those words coming out of her mouth, then the monstrosity on the floor in front of him stole all his attention. It appeared to be the body of a woman, middle-aged and well past her prime, but the face was unrecognizable. The top half of the skull was gone, sawed away just below the eyes. There was a tremendous amount of blood on the sheet covering the woman, and on the floor. The brain cavity was empty, its contents and the entire top half of the head missing. Constantine turned away and swallowed hard, gagging. It looked like someone had tried to make a soldier demon out of a living, breathing person.

Angela grabbed his shoulder and pulled him after her, practically running into the nearest empty examining room. She slammed the door shut and collapsed onto the bed, raking a hand feverishly through her hair. Constantine stood near the doorway and tried to catch his breath, the all-too familiar burning in his lungs back once more. The image of the body seemed to be burned into the back of his eyelids, flashing before his face every time he blinked.

"Angela?" he managed at last. "What the hell happened back there?"

"I don't know," she said thickly, her gaze locked on his feet. "But I…I knew it would be…like that." She looked up at him then, hazel eyes glassy with shock. "I dreamed this, John. I knew. God, how do I always know?"

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Review please! 

Cookies for anyone who gets the significance of the date/time. (Zelda…I know you know...don't post it in your review, k?)


	3. A Suspect

Author's Note: First of all, I love you all for reviewing. My amount of inspiration is directly proportional to the number of reviews I get. (Good lord, too much Algebra…) This chapter is LONG. The next one is considerably shorter, so enjoy.

**Trinity on the run** –"Nusquam Esse" is Latin for 1. to be deceived and 2. to not exist.

**Shangri-la-gypsy**—Thanks so much for noticing that. I'm as much a fan of the relationship stuff as anyone, but I just don't think it's in character for it to happen immediately. It would have to be over a period of time and under the right circumstances. That said, there _will_ be relationship stuff in my fic. Just mixed in with the plot, and spread out in a way that I think is realistic. And…of course it won't be Chastine. That's just…creepy. I have no problem with gay relationships, but the age thing is just too much in my book.

**Mousewolf—**You quoted Macbeth! I love you! And I was totally thinking that the whole time I wrote it…

**Salienne**—Get online, you invisible person! Maybe it's a good thing they're not taking the car after all…

**Liv—**You know I love you. That is all.

**Bagpipes—**thx four tha revyoo, it wuz gr8!

Cookies for **jeayniee (and Zelda of course, since she sort of inspired that whole thing…) **for getting the date/time significance. I suppose I should've been more specific about the type of significance it had…that said…I like to throw in numbers/quotes/pieces of scenes from other movies or shows. There are two in this chapter, one of which is rather obvious, the other of which is not. Good luck.

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Chapter 3 

Ravenscar Mental Hygiene Ward

Los Angeles, California

September 13, 2005

10:43 A.M.

"Angela," Constantine was saying rather uncomfortably, "maybe um…this isn't exactly the best place for us to talk."

She looked up at him, head still swimming. He looked a little better, she thought absently, though far from good. The dark cirlces under his eyes had lightened a little but were still present, and he looked like he could use about a year of sleep. His white shirt was rumpled as always, black trench coat slung rock-star style over one shoulder. He was far from suave, not even charming—but there was still something about him, Angela reflected for what seemed like the hundredth time, something darkly appealing.

"You…want to get out of here?" she managed after a moment, trying to collect her train of thought. There was something about this place, waves of another presence, long gone but still potent enough to disrupt her senses. She knew that Constantine had to feel it too, but he was practiced in hiding such things.

He nodded abruptly and took off out the door. It caught her a bit by surprise—she was used to having him struggling to keep up with her, not the other way around. Angela got to her feet quickly, trying to get her bearings, and ran after him. He was breathing hard, she noticed as she caught up to him, and coughing a little, but nowhere near as badly as before. She made a mental note to ask him about it later and put her full concentration into getting out of the hospital without bumping into anyone or anything.

"Where are we going?" she managed at last as they stepped into the bright sun of the parking lot. It was a cold morning, and damp, though the fog promised to burn off by noon.

"This way," said Constantine simply, turning sharply to the left and walking down a row of cars.

Angela grunted as she nearly walked straight into him; her shoulder brushed his, and for a moment it was if a minute electric spark had passed between them. She shook herself and forced her vision straight ahead, though she found herself straining to look sideways and see if he'd felt it too. If he had, he certainly wasn't showing it—his full attention was focused on a vehicle they were rapidly approaching.

The car was a nondescript station wagon—it was impossible to tell just what the manufacturer was, or how old it was, though Angela's best guess was several decades. The exterior was covered in a multitude of chipping paint, multicolored layers showing through in blotchy patches where the topcoat appeared to have been eaten away by some sort of acidic liquid. One of the hub caps was missing, and two of the doors didn't match. Angela sighed and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Let me guess…your new car."

Constantine nodded and gave her an expression surprisingly like a smile.

"Five hundred bucks at the junkyard. Don't you dare tell me it's illegal, Officer Angela."

She _did _roll her eyes then. There was just no helping it.

"Such the high class gentleman. Did you actually get your license reinstated?"

He dug into the pocket of his trench coat in response and pulled out a very battered wallet, then held up one of the flaps to show her the laminated card. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Good for you. Now give me the keys. _You_ are _not _driving that thing with me in it."

He shook his head, gave her a mock-hurt look, then dug into his pocket again and tossed the keys at her. She caught them, much to her own surprise, and walked around to the driver's side. The key ring was heavy with runes and protective symbols; there were only three actual keys on it, though the whole thing was full. She had to jiggle the key around in the lock for nearly a full minute before the driver's side door opened; she half expected the whole thing to fall off in her hands.

The seat was made of cracked vinyl, and promptly went flat when she sat down. There was a hole in the floor on the passenger side, and she watched in slight amusement as Constantine tried to find a way to arrange his long legs so as not to stick a foot out onto the road.

"Jesus," she muttered, "does this bucket of bolts fly?"

"What?" He looked confused.

"You know, like Star Wars?"

He shook his head.

"I never watched that stuff. Didn't need to. My own life was weird enough."

Angela smiled absently for lack of a better response and turned the key in the ignition. The thing sputtered and then roared to life, sounding as though the engine might blow out at any moment. She turned back to look at Constantine but found he was staring absently out the window. She had come to realize even in the short time she'd spent with him before that his gruff exterior was only a defense mechanism, a cover for the intensity of emotion just under the surface. She treasured the notion of the man under the façade, of the possibility that maybe, just maybe this new case would give her time enough with him to breach that shield.

"All right," she said at last. "You've got me in the car. Now where are we going?"

"Huh?" He turned back to her, eyes still distant. "Oh. My place. You know how to get there?"

"I found it in the first place didn't I?"

"Unfortunately for you," he muttered.

"John…."

"Sorry. Force of habit."

They sat in uneasy silence for the rest of the drive; Angela could see written all over his face that he had as many things to say to her as she to him, but the tension was too thick to be spoken through. The bowling alley seemed to come up unusually fast, traffic was horrendous as always and yet the time that they were in the car seemed to simply evaporate. She pulled the car into a parking space against the curb and got out, then paused, letting Constantine take the lead again. They were, after all, on his home turf.

They went inside, then paused again. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit, then turned back to her.

"I uh…I wasn't exactly expecting company, but…"

Angela suppressed a grin, picturing the mess in his apartment. Possibly anything from week old pizza boxes in the trash to a bloody demon corpse on the floor. She shook her head and looked around the bowling alley which was in full swing.

"You know how to bowl?"

"Well of course," he muttered. "I only live above a fucking alley." He ran a hand through his hair again, slipped a hand inside his trench coat for his breast pocket. The hand came back out again a moment later, empty, and he grinned at her sheepishly. "Actually…I've always been terrible at it."

Angela smiled, picturing him bowling gutter ball after gutter ball. The sound of people yelling diverted her attention toward the lane nearest them, and she looked over just in time to see a balding man throw a ball so hard it bounced over into the lane next to him.

"I bet you're not as bad as that guy," said Angela, walking over to one of the tables overlooking the alley and motioning for him to follow.

"You might be surprised," he muttered, taking the seat across from her.

The man bowled again, this time in his own lane but at the wrong time. The ball hit the pinsetter, causing several alarms to start blaring angrily. The owner went running over, looking as though he wanted to use the man himself as a bowling ball.

"Nice spot," quipped Constantine, grinning wolfishly at her.

Angela smiled to herself, glad to see he was doing at least somewhat better.

"So," she said at last. "You wanted to talk to me. So talk."

Constantine sighed, then nodded.

"This case. Does it feel…off…to you?"

She eyed him, knowing that he was trying to get her to say it first.

"You think…the victim was possessed?"

He shook his head, gave her a disappointed look.

"No. A demon couldn't do physical damage like that. Not on our plane. Not by itself. And I don't think that could be a suicide, do you?"

Angela shook her head.

"No. There's no way you could cut a piece of your own skull. I mean…even if you tried, and _if _you h ad access to some kind of weapon that would be capable of…" She trailed off, sighed. "You'd pass out from the pain almost immediately."

"Right." He looked at her, his enthusiasm renewed. She had the sudden feeling that she was back in school again, under the gaze of an imperious professor.

Angela looked down at her hands, uncomfortable under his piercing gaze.

"What are you thinking?" she asked at last.

"You know what I'm thinking."

He leaned across the table, into her personal space. She resisted the urge to lean away from him this time. He was testing her, and she was determined not to give in to him like she had before.

"The murderer was possessed."

"Very good."

His voice was smug, filled with condescension as though he'd won some kind of private battle with her. She didn't like it one bit.

"Look, John, this is my case. It's a troubling case, yes, and I'm more than glad to have your help with it. But if you're going to patronize me like this I can just as easily ask you to leave. I don't take kindly to people who doubt my intelligence."

He said nothing to that, just sat watching her. She had the strange feeling that he was mentally dissecting her. Her cell phone beeped a moment later, making her jump and breaking the awkward silence between them. She picked it up and read the message, then pushed back her chair.

"That was Weiss. They've found a potential suspect. Charles M. Malone, a patient at Ravenscar with a room in the vicinity of the murder is missing."

Constantine snorted.

"Ravenscar…bad luck with the mental patients, huh?"

Angela gave him her worst look.

"_Not _funny."

She stood up and started for the door. Constantine didn't move.

"Are you staying or are you coming?" called Angela over her shoulder.

"Am I allowed to come?" He winked obnoxiously at her.

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to decide whether or not to let that one slide.

"Are you going to behave?"

Wordlessly, he followed her out the door of the bowling alley.

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Review please! 

It's my last week of school. Wish me luck on finals.


	4. Conscience

Author's Note: I'm a junior! And it's summer. Yay.

So here's the part where I reveal how much of a review addict I am. I'm going to sell out. Sort of. So here's the deal. You guys gave me 12 reviews for Chapter 2. I liked that number. If I get more than 10 reviews for 4 consecutive chapters (that's roughly a month at the rate I've been posting), then I'll write a separate one-shot for you. You give me scenarios, I pick a couple and write. If I get more than 15 reviews per chapter for two chapters, I'll do the same thing. Tell me what you guys think.

Ground rules, though. I will not write slash. I just don't see it as being in character. And I'm not promising any terribly graphic smut, though I will write love scenes if asked. Beyond that…pretty much anything is up for grabs.

Also, this will have no impact on the posting of this fic. Because I hate it when authors threaten not to post anymore. It's just…not right.

That said, this chapter is all OC based. Hope you guys don't mind. I will, of course, still be following our trusty movie characters in the next several chapters.

If you're still with me at this point, you get cookies. The two references in that last chapter were obviously Star Wars, and the hole in the floor of the car from Where the Heart is.

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Chapter 4

_Fernandez Used Cars_

_Los Angeles, California_

_11:01 A.M._

_October 13, 2005_

Charlie Malone glared into the sun, leaned against the side of a battered SUV, and put a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth. The used car joint was too goddamned slow. He'd specifically looked for one that appeared seedy enough to simply give him a car for his money without running a fucking background check—easy to come by in Los Angeles—but it seemed he'd misjudged with this one. It was run by a middle-aged Hispanic man who seemed to have a conscience the size of Hollywood. Unfortunately for Charlie, fifteen years in a mental hospital left him with precious few credentials to offer.

"You show me driver license now, si?" The man smiled and bobbed his head, unphased by Charlie's glare.

Charlie spat into a puddle of what looked like radiator fluid. He wasn't ordinarily an unkind person. Under any normal circumstances, he would have been ashamed of himself for the thoughts he was having regarding this man. But this was different. He needed a car, and fast. It didn't matter what he had to do to get it. He'd screwed up once in life and he wasn't about to do it again.

"Look, buddy, I gave you the money you wanted, now you give me that car. That's how it works in this country."

"Nono, you show me driver license. Is my responsible to keep drive safe. You no have license, I canno' give car."

"I don't have my wallet with me," lied Charlie. "I left kinda fast."

The man shook his head, looking crestfallen.

"Then I canno' give car. I don't know if you are safely driver."

Charlie spat again, harder this time, noting with satisfaction that a few of the black droplets had splashed onto the man's shoes.

"I need that car. I have to get out of here."

The man cocked his head. Apparently he wasn't as thick as he appeared.

"You are wanting run from something. I can tell."

"Yes," said Charlie, too quickly. Then, "my uh—my wife."

The man shook his head sadly as though he understood.

"Women. Trouble."

"Yes, yes," said Charlie, encouraged. He'd obviously hit on something here. "Women trouble. Big women trouble."

Shit, this man's inarticulacy was contagious. He had to keep talking if he was going to get out of here anywhere near in time. Too much had already been lost.

"Look, I really need that car."

"Wife come after you?"

"Yes, she's coming. Soon."

"She take wallet?"

"What?" He spat into the puddle a third time and swallowed, cringing at the bitterness of the tobacco. It wasn't calming him today like it usually did. Strange, he'd been craving it so long and now that he finally had some it was almost a disappointment.

"You say you don't have wallet. Your wife take wallet, si?"

"Oh! Yes! Yes. My wife took my wallet. That's why I don't have a driver's license to show you."

For a moment it seemed as if the man would give in, but then his eyes narrowed again. Charlie sighed and resisted the urge to ram his fist into the SUV's window. Too painful, and it probably wouldn't help convince this man that he was a "safely driver."

"If she take wallet, why you have money?"

Charlie sighed. This was a plausible question. His lie was in serious danger.

"I um…I've gotten used to it. Her taking my wallet, I mean. So I hid my money."

"If you knew she was going to take wallet, why you no hide license too?"

"I didn't think about _that_," grumped Charlie. "Besides, this is special money. I've been saving it."

"Saving it…to buy with drugs?"

Charlie snorted at the mental image that conjured, but said nothing.

"No. Not to buy drugs. To buy…a car. So…would you please give me the damned thing now?"

The man hesitated, then pulled a key off the ring on his belt. He led Charlie over to the other side of the lot and then stopped. The car was a black sedan, ironically enough, almost as if the man had known that he was going to use it for something illegal. It was covered in a thin layer of dust and grime which dulled the gloss of the paint. It looked as if it was trying to be inconspicuous, to blend in with the rest of the landscape.

The man held out the key, then drew his hand back just as Charlie moved to take it.

"How I know you be good to this car?"

"Look, buddy, you want the money or not?"

"Not if you going to use it for bad purposes."

"Dammit, why do I have to get the one fucking honest car salesman in the entire shithole country?"

"I begging pardon?"

Charlie sighed, drew back his arm, and dealt the man a good hard blow to the temple. He staggered for a moment, eyes rolling back in his head, then fell to the ground with a small puff of dust. Charlie swallowed hard, then bent down and retrieved the key from the man's now-limp fingers.

He got into the car and turned the key, jumping a little as the thing sputtered to life. He needed some more tobacco. And maybe a drink. He was going to have to calm these nerves if he was to be of any use to the others.

"God," muttered Charlie as he pulled out of the parking lot. He could still see the salesman's prone body in the rearview mirror, a brown speed bump in the dust of the parking lot. "What have I done…"

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Review please! 


	5. A Bulletproof Vest

Author's Note: If you're at all observant, you'll have noticed that I changed the title. That has more to do with the fact that this fic is a part of a series than anything else. While I liked the Latin, it was one Latin title in a series with four other English titles. The new title (and the title of the sequel) is from A Perfect Circle's Passive.

No one responded to my offer regarding reviews…I do realize that that really sucked not being able to review for two entire days, and I thank those of you who did. Because that happened, I guess I'll offer the same deal for 10 + reviews per chapter for the next three chapters, or 15+ reviews per chapter on the next two. Thoughts?

* * *

Chapter 5

_Ravenscar Hospital_

_Mental Hygiene Wing_

_Los Angeles, CA_

_1:30 P.M._

_October 13, 2005_

"Charles Malone," recited Weiss, reading from a thick medical file, "committed in November of 1988, with tendencies toward paranoia and violent fits of temper. Self-committed. Walked in here and announced that he needed help, then just never left."

"Until now," said Angela darkly, taking the thick manila folder from Weiss and leafing through it.

Constantine took a step forward and looked over her shoulder, noting with satisfaction the look of annoyance on Weiss' gruff features.

"You think he's our murderer?" said Angela to no one in particular.

"Obviously," said Weiss, looking at her as though she'd just sprouted a second head.

Constantine frowned and moved closer still, squinting at the all-but-illegible doctors' handwriting. Angela gave him a look and passed the papers along, stepping away from him and wrapping her arms across her chest.

"You don't think Malone is our guy, do you," said Angela, watching him. It wasn't a question.

Weiss sniffed loudly, an obvious message of condescension.

"No," said Constantine slowly. "But I think he's connected somehow."

"Really?" said Weiss sarcastically, "you think?"

Angela glared at him, but he just smiled coolly. Constantine resisted the urge to snap back at him; he had the feeling that Angela wasn't exactly in the mood for witty remarks, and he had no desire to start another fight with her at the moment.

"Is there any evidence that the two may have known each other?" asked Angela, changing the subject.

Constantine leafed through the file, looking. It was a reasonable question, one he'd been considering himself, but he knew from experience that Ravenscar allowed its mental patients very little contact with the outside world. As good as it sounded, the possibility didn't seem likely.

"Doesn't say."

She nodded, and Weiss tapped his foot, giving Angela a look that clearly said 'what the hell is he doing here?'

"So, what then?" repeated Weiss, as if still trying to believe it. "He just _happens _to have a room in the vicinity of the murder, just _happens _to go missing very near to the time of the killing, but he's not involved? _That's _logical."

Angela looked back and forth between the two men as if deciding whether or not to intervene, then shook her head.

"I never said he wasn't involved," insisted Constantine. "Just that he's not the killer."

"_Why?" _asked Weiss, his voice rising angrily. "Because you're the spooky exorcist, so you can't just go with the _logical _explanation? Law enforcement officers follow a _protocol _you know. That's why we're endorsed by the government while you're stuck doing shady business in dark alleyways."

"Weiss—" started Angela.

"No, really," insisted the younger man. "I want to know why he's so damned sure that Malone isn't our man."

Constantine shrugged and looked down at the papers in his hands, smiling to himself as a theory began to take shape.

"It doesn't add up. Look at it this way. Our victim—Madeleine Neese—was killed in the middle of the hallway. That means she had to get _out _of her room in the first place. Now Ravenscar may _claim _to be the most patient-friendly psych ward around, but the truth is it's still a mental institution. They lock the rooms at night. In order for a patient to get out, they'd have to first get the door open.

"According to the report, the door to Neese' room was found unlocked but fully intact. It must have been unlocked with a key. The body was discovered sometime later when nurses were disturbed by loud noises. They found the door to Malone's room destroyed, and Malone gone. But the _body _was already cold."

Weiss blanched and looked at the floor. Angela let out a slow breath and leaned over, examining the case file one final time.

"Damn it," she muttered. "You're right."

Constantine smiled grimly in response.

"So…then…what?" murmured Angela, more to herself than anyone else. "Malone broke out of his room _after _the murder—but—how would he have known?"

"If a murder took place outside _your _door, would _you _know?" asked Constantine.

"Well, yes, probably, but you know I'm—" She broke off, realization dawning. "You think that Malone…"

"Maybe."

Weiss looked back and forth between them and made a sound of disgust deep in his throat.

"You think Malone is _psychic?_ Angie, be serious, you can't really be _buying _this bullshit."

Angela shrugged again.

"He's made more sense of it so far than either of us has."

"But he—_jesus_, next thing you'll tell me our murderer is the Invisible Man."

Constantine kept his face carefully blank as he answered in his trademark deadpan, "You never know."

Weiss' eyebrows shot up to an impossible height.

"You—you're serious. You're fucking serious." He turned to Angela. "He's fucking _serious_! I don't care what you say, Angie, this whack-job is _not _staying on the case."

Angela narrowed her eyes dangerously.

"Last time I checked, Weiss, I _was _the senior officer—"

His cell phone chirped, interrupting her, and Weiss dove to answer it. He hung up a moment later, grinning smugly.

"There's been another murder. At a used car dealership about an hour from here. A worker at the dealership reported an assailant matching Malone's description."

"All right," said Angela slowly, "let's go. Weiss, I'll meet you out front."

The young man nodded and took off. Constantine gave Angela a questioning look as she turned back toward him.

"John, listen," she said apologetically, "You've been a great help so far, but Weiss is right, it is our jurisdiction and we have a responsibility to do this according to protocol. I'm not in good favor as it is and I—I could lose my job, John."

Constantine frowned at her, not ready to accept this for an answer.

"There's something not right about this case, Angela, I can feel it. So can you. You aren't trained, you're not ready to face this on your own."

"John…I'm stronger than you think."

He reached out and caught the amulet that hung just above her collarbone. His voice was adamant as he spoke.

"_You need me, _Angela. This time a bullet proof vest…just might not be enough."

* * *

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	6. Victim Number Two

Author's Note: If you haven't read my one-shot "For the Best," you're not going to understand what Constantine and Angela are talking about in the car. Just a warning. Please keep in mind that this fic as well as "Another Kind of Intimacy" and the aforementioned are part of a series.

Also, I got a request to put a note stating that I'm using Weiss from the novelization more than from the movie. Just…yeah. Keep that in mind.

* * *

Chapter 6 

_Fernandez Used Cars_

_Los Angeles, California_

_October13, 2005_

_2:51 P.M._

The body had already been removed, but the area where the murder had occurred was clearly marked in white chalk and tape. The harsh light of early-afternoon L.A. sun revealed a dark brown stain in the sandy parking-lot ground where the head had been, and flies were beginning to arrive. Angela knelt by the edge of the outline and watched as one of them landed in the dark sand and flitted about, laying eggs. She stood and turned away, her stomach rolling dangerously.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump and she turned to face Constantine who looked far too at ease for such a case.

"Victim number two?" he asked.

Angela shook her head.

"I don't think so. Victim number two of this case, yes. But the same killer…it just doesn't feel right."

Constantine smirked.

"Another hunch?"

Angela shrugged.

"Call it what you will."

"Where's our good friend Weiss?" he asked, changing tack.

"On his way. He stopped by the local station to talk to the officers who were first on the scene here."

"Good idea," said Constantine, sounding uncharacteristically smug.

"John…" Angela forced herself to breathe slowly, fighting for control. She hated being trapped between the two of them, hated the position it put her in having to mediate. Weiss was the logical person for her to trust; they'd been partners for more than two years and he'd saved her life on more than one occasion. And yet recently she'd found that against her better judgment and every rational cell in her brain, it was John Constantine she'd come to rely on the most. "Listen, I let you stay on this case against my better judgment. Weiss wants you gone. If you pick a fight with him…there's nothing I can do to bail you out this time."

"Best behavior," said Constantine, entirely unconvincingly. He held up four fingers. "Scout's Honor."

Angela snorted at the image of him as a Boy Scout.

"Speak of the Devil," he said, and Angela turned to see Weiss getting out of a police car and walking toward them.

"News?" she asked.

Weiss nodded.

"The victim was a middle-aged Hispanic man by the name of Pablo Fernandez. There's been no autopsy performed yet, but the medical examiner did a cursory exam. It would appear that he was knocked unconscious by a blow to the temple—likely from a fist. The impact of the ground likely fractured his skull, which would have caused him to bleed to death relatively quickly."

Angela nodded slowly.

"So it doesn't fit the pattern."

"Pattern," said Weiss. "There is no pattern. You can't have a pattern of one."

"No," said Constantine amiably, "but every pattern has to start somewhere."

"We have an _eyewitness account,_" insisted Weiss. "A worker who was inside the building at the time of the incident reports seeing a man matching Malone's description get out of a rather battered vehicle and ask to buy a different car. He had cash but no driver's license or any form of identification. Fernandez refused to sell him the car on the grounds that he had no license and no means of registering the vehicle. After they argued for several minutes, Malone became agitated and punched Fernandez in the temple, then got into a black Honda Civic and drove off."

"All right," said Constantine, nodding slowly. "So Malone most likely killed Fernandez. That doesn't mean he killed Neese."

Weiss continued to glower.

"You _still _think Malone is innocent?"

"I didn't say that. I said he didn't kill Maddie Neese."

"Was there anything else?" asked Angela, trying to stop the argument from elevating.

"As a matter of fact," said Weiss, sounding far too pleased with himself, "there is. There have already been several sightings of Malone and the car since last night, the most recent of which in the city of Bakersfield."

Angela pulled out the small PDA she carried and dialed up a map. The thing was a pain to keep track of, and it came with about a million liability and warrantee forms, but it did occasionally come in handy.

"That's about two hours north of here," she told the others.

"What do you want to do?" asked Weiss, suddenly playing cooperative.

Angela looked at Constantine for confirmation.

"Malone is the best link we have so far," he said slowly. "We might as well follow him."

* * *

While Angela's SUV was more than roomy enough to comfortably fit three people, it was nowhere near large enough to house both John Constantine and Xavier Weiss for any long amounts of time. She had picked the two of them up for the long ride to Bakersfield after a quick trip back into the city for the necessities. After nearly an hour and several narrow misses on the highway, Angela had relinquished the driver's seat to Weiss and moved into the back. Constantine sat beside her, long legs cramped against the seat in front, and pretended to sleep so as to ignore the other man's incessant prattling. 

"So, Angie, did you watch the game last night?" asked Weiss. It was his third change of subject in under ten minutes, and seemed no more successful in starting a conversation than anything previous.

"You know I hate football," muttered Angela without looking up.

Weiss sighed and turned on the radio, giving up. Constantine opened one eye a crack and looked at her. She was staring absently out the window. He shook his head and shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. The back seat was undoubtedly cramped, and it was getting rather distracting.

"I know you're not asleep," muttered Angela without turning.

Constantine gave up and leaned over so his chin was practically resting on her shoulder.

"What, did you want _me _to entertain him?"

"That's not nice," Angela chided.

"Since when am I _nice_?"

She turned, nearly bumped noses with him, shooed him away with one hand, obviously flustered.

"Good point. Don't know what I was thinking."

He knew she was kidding, but somehow it stung just a little. A few minutes of awkward silence passed between them before Angela spoke again.

"Are you feeling better?"

The question took him by surprise, and for a moment he wondered if she was talking about the cancer or his latest run-in with the world of bacteria. She'd never said anything more about it after he'd admitted to her that he was terminal, but he guessed that she knew, somehow of his cure, just as she knew of Isabel's redemption. He shrugged, trying to think of some witty reply. Knowing someone cared enough to ask made him decidedly uncomfortable.

"If it's not one thing, it's another," he muttered at last. It was hardly what he'd intended, but at least it was something.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She put a hand on his shoulder.

"Yes."

"I'm glad."

Angela smiled at that and he was amazed as ever at how she seemed to radiate warmth. He shrugged out of her grasp after a moment and looked out his own window, trying to regain control.

"Angela—" He broke off, shook his head. There was something that needed to be said, but he wasn't sure how.

"What?"

"I'm sorry about…last time…"

She shook her head.

"I had it coming. I shouldn't have pushed like that." She laughed a little, bitterly. "I just…hate seeing people hurt. It makes me lose my head. That's why I shoot without looking…Ironic, isn't it?"

Constantine chuckled, then broke off abruptly when Weiss turned around to look at them.

"What would you say if I told you I know exactly what you mean?" he asked when the younger man had turned around again.

"I'd say you scare me," she answered, grinning. "But then I'd have to be afraid of myself."

"Maybe that's what you and I have in common," said Constantine, more seriously than he'd meant to. "We scare people."

"And ourselves," said Angela, going back to staring out the window.

"And ourselves," echoed Constantine, shaking his head as they passed a battered white fence on the side of the road which read "Jesus is Kin." The "g" had fallen off, apparently, and no one had ever bothered to replace it. He rather liked the new sentiment, he thought, though he was sure the locals who had painted the fence wouldn't agree.

* * *

I'll write a one-shot of your choice if I get 10 + reviews per chapter for the next 3 chapters, or 15 + per chapter for the next 2. 

Come join Astral Light: A Constantine Fan Forum! Link in my profile.


	7. Sunny Days

Author's Note: The hotel in these next few chapters is fictitious; I had started out with a real one, but figured there was no point in insulting a place where I'd never actually been.

So…one more time. I'll write a separate one-shot if I get 10 reviews per chapter for the next three chapters, or 15 reviews per chapter for the next two.

* * *

Chapter 7

_Sunny Days Inn_

_Bakersfield, California_

_3:41 P.M._

_October 13, 2005_

The car was running low on gas. Again. Charlie had already blown most of his emergency store of cash on buying the vehicle, and on the first two tanks of fuel, which apparently leaked out much faster than they got used. No wonder the car had been so cheap. Apparently the man who'd sold it to him hadn't been quite as honest as he'd appeared. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought of the man, lying facedown in the car dealership's parking lot, but he couldn't be bothered with that right now. There were more important things at stake. Much more important.

Charlie had stopped at a pay phone to make his phone call, had gotten a voicemail as he'd expected. A message of travel plans as usual. A message that had led him to Bakersfield, to the Sunny Days Inn, a cheap little place with scraggly looking palm trees out front. Charlie parked the car and hurriedly made his way inside. The last thing he needed was to stick around in open areas. He was relatively certain no one would be on his trail just yet—at least no one, well, typical— but there was no telling. Better to be safe than sorry.

Cool air blasted out into the humid summer day as he opened the doors, and he had the sudden feeling that he was walking into a wind tunnel. He shivered. There was a small table off to the left of the doorway with some wilted doughnuts and a pitcher of pungent instant coffee. Probably hadn't been changed in a week, thought Charlie. The clerk at the small desk was watching something on a television monitor in the corner of the room, and appeared to be half asleep. Charlie guessed that if he pushed the girl, she would fall over without waking up.

"Excuse me?" he said loudly.

The girl's eyelids fluttered and she yawned obnoxiously in his face, chewing a piece of gum quite visibly.

"Wha?"

"I'm looking for Ben Skinner. His voicemail message said he was staying here."

"Look, my shift just started. I dunno nothing about your guy, Mister."

Charlie sighed. She obviously hadn't just started her shift, unless she was habitually comatose.

"Could you look it up for me, please?"

She gave a long-suffering sigh, cracked her gum at him and reached under the counter to retrieve the record book.

"Looks like…he checked in last night, has a room through tomorrow morning. What you here to see him for?"

"Uh…business," said Charlie hastily.

The girl narrowed her eyes at him.

"Hey, look, Mister, this is a respectable establishment. I give you his room number, I don't wanna hear about no funny business goin' on up there."

Charlie rolled his eyes.

"Okay, just give me the damn number!" He forced himself to breathe slowly. Anger wouldn't get him anywhere. Not now.

"Room 303. Up that staircase." She raised her arm about two inches off the counter to point.

Charlie didn't wait for her to say anything else. He turned and sprinted up the stairs, coughing as the exertion hit his lungs. He hadn't had any exercise to speak of in a very long time. The door was the first on his left at the top of the stairwell, and he pounded on it with his fist.

"Ben? Ben! Open up, Ben, it's important!"

The door flew open a moment later, revealing a pair of fiery blue eyes.

"Charlie?" Ben Skinner was tall, blond, and disgustingly handsome. Charlie always had been jealous of him. But that didn't matter now. Only one thing mattered.

"Let me in, Ben. I need to talk to you."

Ben's expression changed at the tone of Charlie's voice, and he stepped aside slowly. There was only one reason Charlie would be here on such short notice. He wouldn't have left the safety of Ravenscar without a damn good reason. Probably. Then again, Charlie always had been a little eccentric.

"What is it?"

"It's happening. It's happening again."

Ben narrowed his eyes, sat on the bed.

"How do you know?"

"I know. I-I saw it."

"That's impossible and you know it," answered Ben stubbornly. "I'm not going to give up everything I've worked for because you've gone paranoid."

"Maddie is _dead, _Ben. I saw it with my own eyes."

"People die," insisted Ben. "She never did take very good care of herself."

"No, not like that. Murdered. Like…like before." Charlie felt the anger start to boil up in the pit of his stomach again. Why couldn't Ben just listen to him? He didn't have time for this.

Ben shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Charlie. I might have believed you once. But that was a long time ago. Now…now I think you'd better go."

The condescension in his voice was so obvious it turned Charlie's blood to liquid fire. He spun and rushed out of the room, swallowing his rage. If Ben wouldn't listen then he didn't have the time to waste. There were others who needed to be warned.

* * *

_Room 102_

_Sunny Days Inn_

_Bakersfield, CA_

_11:31 P.M._

Angela sat on the hard hotel bed, staring at the static-filled television screen and listening to Constantine cough through the wall. There was something not right about this hotel, though she couldn't quite put her finger on what. It had been the first decent-looking one they'd come to, and Constantine had insisted they stop. In hindsight, she wondered if he'd felt it too, and if he'd purposely chosen it to put them in a strategic position. She knew she should go to sleep, but her mind just wouldn't seem to clear.

She sat up further at the sound of water running in the next room and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Constantine had insisted on staying in the room adjoining hers, forcing Weiss into one across the hall. Angela wasn't sure why he was suddenly so concerned for her safety, but it made her nervous. She could see light coming under the door from his room; he was still awake. She made up her mind, went over to it, and knocked.

"John?"

He opened the door a moment later, still coughing a little. He stepped aside and beckoned her in. Angela smiled as she noticed the mess; only he could wreck a hotel room in a few hours. The covers were pulled down on the bed, the comforter on the floor. Chinese food takeout containers were spread all over the small bedside table, along with a plate soaked in grease.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked at last, sitting on the bed.

Angela narrowed her eyes at him.

"Not with the racket coming through my wall." She smiled at him, just a little. "I thought you said you'd been back to the doctor."

He turned away from her and stuffed a piece of gum in his mouth, chomping down hard.

"Have been. Got ambushed by your people at that goddamn hospital, remember?"

Angela sighed.

"All right, all right. Sorry." She paused, sat down beside him, curling her feet under her. "So?"

"So?"

"So what did you find out?"

"I have…a respiratory infection. Jesus, who are you, my mother?"

"Where'd this mood come from?" she asked, slightly taken aback. She was used to his attitude, but she'd thought he was finally starting to open up earlier that afternoon in the car. She shrugged. "You could use someone to take care of you the way you treat yourself."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Just…" Angela shook her head. "Nevermind."

She got up and went over to the window, looking out at the parking lot which was lit by fluorescent floodlights. She wasn't sure why she felt so drawn to him, but there was something there, something about the darkness that seemed to hang over his shoulders. She wished she could see him smile more often.

"Look…" he said at last. "You…doing okay with all of this?"

The question sounded gruff, unnatural on his lips, but she appreciated the fact that he was going out of his way for her. It wasn't usual for him. She sighed.

"I…It's a tough case. We'll figure it out. We always do." It wasn't what he meant and she knew it, but she wasn't ready to admit that she was having a hard time adjusting to her renewed Sight.

"You're not sleeping," he said softly.

Angela turned to find him looking intently at her. He was right, there hadn't been a single night since the incident at Ravenscar when her sleep hadn't been interrupted by nightmares. Dreams of cold-blooded murder, of war, of death. Half the time, when she walked into the precinct the next morning, she was faced with the reality of the previous night in the form of a new case.

"Neither are you," she countered. "But then that's not new for you, is it."

He met her gaze for one dark, smoldering moment, then got up and went over to her.

"No. It's not." He stood up, went over to her, leaned in until he was only a few inches away. Angela felt a thrill run down her spine.

"It's late, John. Get some rest."

Constantine smirked just a little and took a step forward. He reached out and clapped her on the back, then pulled her closer, turning the gesture into a rough embrace. Angela blinked, too surprised to really react. He'd moved away before she had a chance to return the hug, and she was hit with a pang of disappointment. She turned and walked toward the door.

"Good night, John."

"'Night," he muttered, flopping down on the bed and switching on the television.

* * *

Review please!

Come join Astral Light: A Constantine Fan Forum! Link in my profile.


	8. Eyes

Author's Note: So...I would apologize for the lack of updates...but it doesn't appear that anyone missed them.

I'm going to be out of town for the next two weeks, so I don't know when/if I'll have access. Or inspiration.

Ten reviews is obviously never going to happen, so forget I ever said anything about it.

Enjoy.

Chapter 8

_The Sunny Days Inn. Third floor hallway. Room 303. _

_The door swings open slowly, silently, as though moved by a pair of careful, perfect, invisible hands. Stealthy movement in the shadows. A presence, intangible and yet somehow overpowering._

_Inside, a dark hotel room, a single bed with rumpled sheets kicked to the floor. A large man in nothing but white boxers, asleep, snoring lightly. Tall, blond—unbelievably handsome. A perfect outer shell concealing the corruption within._

_The man stirs, grunts, sits up in bed. There is something here. He puts a hand to the back of his neck as his skin crawls, shudders and looks at the cast-off covers. Picking them up would help, of course, but it would also require movement. Movement which might cause something else to take notice. Might stir silent shadow things resting in the corners of the room._

_Whispers of the past haunt him, muttered warnings and scoffed rebuttals._

_Nowaycouldn'tbeyou'reparanoid._

_I refuse to believe that. _

_I will not sacrifice everything I've rebuilt time and time again to feed your fucked up fantasy._

_Still…at the end of the day…there is always the risk. The risk that has kept him running for years. On the road, selling vacuum cleaners that don't really work any better than the store brands to unknowing housewives in search of something to make their harried lives just a little bit easier. _

_The risk that has lost him his own family, divorced him from his wife and closed off the ability to spend even a short weekend with his children. The risk means he will never see his son graduate from high school or his daughter walk down the aisle smiling from below a white lace veil at her wedding._

_The risk he created through greed and recklessness._

_He sits up at last, leans over the side of the bed and snatches up the covers in one swift motion. Burrows down into the bed, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched. Something moves, there, in the shadows. A thickening in the blackness, almost. He pulls the blankets up over his head, cowering in the bed like a child. A glowing eye, green through a hole in the blanket. _

_He throws off the covers and dives to the floor, trying to find his way to the door. Something covers his eyes, like a thick black cloud, engulfing the light from under the door. He stumbles around clawing at his face, crying out in the dark and ramming painfully into pieces of furniture. _

_A pair of hands, cold on his hot neck. _

_He tries to scream, chokes against the stranglehold. Attempting to flail, he finds that he cannot even move, completely deprived of both oxygen and vision, pinwheels of gold swimming in the black._

_The blunt of a knife—no, bigger—a saw? Brought down hard on the place where neck meets shoulder. The man crumples, fighting unconsciousness._

_A searing pain on his hairline._

_Whitehotpainfeardeath._

_Black._

* * *

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	9. Patterns

Author's Note: Sorry for getting snappish, guys. I was yelling at all the wrong people, of course. I love you all for making me feel like what I'm producing here is more than a daydream that occasionally makes me laugh.

_**Evelyn Valerious**: You rock for always reviewing, and I'm glad you find my humor funny._

_**xiaouxijiang:** Thanks for the review, and sorry for not replying sooner. I'm glad you're enjoying my work, and I couldn't agree more that we need to do something to liven up the category a little—check out my forum if you haven't. While I appreciate your offer to beta, I've already got two people doing that job. If you'd ever like to talk, feel free to IM or email me—my contact info is in my profile._

_**Fanficgeek**: Thank you for all of your kind words, and the much-needed pep talk in your last review. I know my chapters are shorter than average—humor me, I'm trying to make them longer. _

_**Y. Seta**: You are a brilliant writer, and I'm glad to know you're enjoying my work as much as I've enjoyed yours. I'll be sure to drop you a review as soon as I'm on a more reliable internet connection._

_**Rogaldorn3**: Stop lurking and join! I promise we don't bite…much. I don't know if you've read the novelization of the move, but that's kind of where I'm getting my Weiss from. Yes, he might be going a little too far though…I'll have to put a leash on him. Glad you're enjoying the crime-novel feel I've been working on—it's every bit my intention._

_**Ann**: Thank you thank you. I have another…6 chapters? written…so you'll get at least that much for sure—but don't worry, I'm already too far in to stop._

_**Bagpipes**: U r da beast revyoo-ur. Eye giv u 5 stares!_

_**Liv**: I've corrupted you, my sister, just as you've corrupted me—and together we've corrupted another One. Rejoice!_

_**Salienne**: Where are you? I do believe you owe me a couple…and I probably owe you some too…_

_**Zelda**: Thank you so much for everything you've done/are doing for me. I bought you something yesterday at Paradise. Can't wait to see your reaction. Oh, and I started writing you a little present too…_

**Happy Fourth to everyone, and I'll be updating again as soon as I can get access.**

_Daydreamer731_

* * *

Chapter 9 

_Sunny Days Inn_

_Bakersfield, CA_

_October 14, 2005_

_12:28 A.M._

Angela woke with a cry, the sheets tangled around her legs, her hair matted to her face by sweat. She lurched to her feet, tasting bile at the back of her throat. She barely had time to make it to the bathroom before her stomach emptied itself, remnants of the dream still flashing on the backs of her eyelids as she fell to her knees, struggling to catch her breath.

After a long while the nausea began to subside and Angela sat up further, bracing herself against the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl. She took a deep breath, stumbled to her feet, flushed the toilet, silently fighting back tears. The nightmares were nothing new, but this one had been especially bad. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face, resisting the urge to take an entire shower. No time for that now. She'd already wasted more than enough.

As she exited the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped short. Fully clothed. Had she fallen asleep without changing? It was entirely possible; she'd been so exhausted lately nothing seemed clear. But still, it was troubling. Angela shook herself and flipped off the light. This was ridiculous. It wasn't as if someone had broken into her room and dressed her in her sleep. The case was getting to her, that was all. The case and the nightmares.

She slipped on her shoes and rushed out into the hallway, tapping on Weiss' door, then stepping back across the hall and pounding on the door next to hers. She wasn't sure why she hadn't simply knocked on the adjoining door, but it had suddenly seemed too private somehow. She couldn't entirely shake a feeling of resentment that Constantine hadn't come to see if she was all right. He _had_ to have heard. Still, much as she would have liked it to be, such a thing just wasn't in his nature.

"What the fuck is going on?" he snapped, flinging the door open so hard it nearly hit her in the face. He looked decidedly flustered, black hair sticking up in larger spikes than usual.

"John," she said thickly, swallowing, "there's…there's been another murder."

"What the hell?" Weiss stood behind her, clothed in one of the hotel bathrobes, looking like a disgruntled tourist who'd just found out the theme parks are closed for renovation.

"Third floor," said Angela, struggling to remember. "Room…303."

"You saw it?" asked Weiss.

"I—no. But…come on, we might still be able to catch it."

"What did you say?" asked Constantine, stepping out into the hall and letting the door close behind him.

"We…the murderer…there might still be—"

"You said 'it.'"

"He! Fuck it! It doesn't matter. Let's just _go_." Angela took off at a jog toward the stairs, the two men close on her heels.

Gold spots danced in front of her vision as she pounded relentlessly up the stairs. She was in relatively good shape ordinarily, but sleep deprivation was beginning to take its toll, and she still couldn't shake a feeling of weakness from the nightmare. Her back and shoulders ached unbearably, and her head felt thick, as though she'd been drinking.

All was quiet in the third floor hallway; not even an elevator seemed to be in motion. Still, there was a definite tinge in the air, strange vibrations more intense than what she'd felt before—like the hospital, but more potent somehow.

As the door to room 303 came into sight it was obvious that not all was right with the room; the door was a crack open, swinging loose on its hinges as though in a slight breeze. Angela pushed it open cautiously, knowing what she would find within. She switched on the light as she went inside, then forced herself to look at the floor, struggling to keep her composure.

"Jesus," she whispered despite herself.

The body was on the floor beside the bed. As before, the head had been cut away below the bridge of the nose and the brain scooped out, leaving the likeness of a soldier demon. The cut wasn't as neat this time, however, and there were fragments of bone and tissue ground into the carpet along with the pool of blood that had caught the edge of the white hotel sheets, staining them crimson. This was obviously a recent murder.

The room was a wreck, furniture overturned and the sheets torn. This man hadn't gone down without a struggle. There were purple bruises on the paling flesh of the corpse's neck; signs of strangulation. So the murderer had incapacitated the victim first, once again.

"Holy hell…" muttered Weiss, looking at Angela as if she might spontaneously combust at any given moment. She felt transparent under his scrutiny and found herself wishing that she had something to hide behind.

"We're going to need to get the local police department on this," she said at last.

"And tell housekeeping they've got one hell of a mess to clean up," added Constantine.

Angela glared at him. She knew he must feel the tragedy as acutely as she did, that his morbid humor was only a mask to hide his own emotions, but it still got to her. The scene played out before them was simply too grotesquely real to be funny in any way.

"So…" said Weiss, "are we convinced that Malone is our guy yet?"

"No," said Angela firmly, for she was certain of it now. The darkness she'd sensed first at the hospital and now again with this murder had not been present at the used car dealership. There was something bigger involved here, something that Weiss would never be able to either understand or accept.

"Pattern?" said Weiss impatiently.

"Yes," said Constantine, breaking in. "It does fit. The same…murderer…who killed Neese killed this man, yes. But I'm not convinced that that's Malone."

"So what do we do now?" asked Angela.

"You go back to bed, Angie," said Weiss firmly. "You look dead on your feet."

"I'm not going anywhere," she answered firmly. "And you didn't answer my question."

"We call the police," said Constantine. "And we find out where the hell Malone is headed next."

"What…"

"Something killed these people. And I don't think it's following us."

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	10. Eureka

Chapter 10

_Sunny Days Inn_

_Bakersfield, CA_

_8:13 A.M._

_October 14, 2005_

Harsh rays of morning sun were streaming in the large windows in the lobby when Angela made her way back down, lugging her suitcase behind her. It had taken the police nearly a full hour to arrive, and even longer for the chief medical examiner to be summoned and the body to be removed. She'd showered and changed, but never gotten back to sleep, promising to meet the others for a "free continental breakfast" in the lobby.

Constantine watched her walk down the stairs out of the corner of his eye. They were the only people in the lobby aside from the sleepy looking desk clerk. This was obviously not a popular hotel. He forked what appeared to be a pastry as she made her way over and proceeded to bounce it off his plate a couple of times; hard as a rock. Weiss cleared his throat and looked at the newspaper he'd bought.

"Enjoying the locale?" asked Angela, ditching her suitcase and eyeing the buffet table that had been set up with a large array of gooey looking foods.

"Oh, yes," said Constantine dryly. "The cuisine is excellent. And the décor…" He gestured at the painfully fake palm tree which looked just as droopy as the desk clerk. "It's just…to _die_ for."

"John…"

"Terrible coffee," said Weiss without looking up.

Constantine glanced across the table at his sullen companion, then got up and took Angela by the arm, leading her over to the buffet. He needed a moment to speak with her; he knew she shared his concerns about the case, but she wouldn't ever dare voice them in front of Weiss. Her career was in enough turmoil as it was without some nosey underling starting more suspicion.

"John…what are you doing?" she asked under her breath as they reached the table on the far side of the room.

"Grab a plate," he muttered, shoving one into her free hand and dropping her arm.

"John…if you think I'm going to eat this there is no way in hell…"

"Humor me," he insisted, giving her just a hint of a smile.

Angela looked over the line then settled on a single hardboiled egg, spearing it savagely with a fork and plopping it down unceremoniously in the middle of the paper plate. She took a step away from the table then turned to face him, holding the plate between them like a shield. She met his gaze and for a moment Constantine felt a thrill of the nervous energy that seemed t crackle in the air between them.

"This is not about you overseeing my breakfast," she said firmly. "Whatever you're going to say, say it. Now."

"The autopsy results are in for our first victim. And for Mr. Fernandez."

"And?"

"And they definitely don't match. Neese's skull was cut away using a specially designed bone saw from Ravenscar's morgue. Fernandez was simply knocked out by a punch."

"And?" She was getting impatient. "What does this tell us that we didn't already know?"

"You dreamed about both of these murders," he said bluntly. "That's how you knew. I need you to tell me what you saw."

Her gaze dropped to the floor, more out of dread than shame, he guessed. Constantine swallowed a pang of self-loathing; he knew the extent of her nightmare, had heard her awake in the night but hadn't been able to bring himself to so much as check on her.

"I saw…a…presence. A pair of eyes, once. The first time…a hand, I think. Only for a second. And the saw. And a knife."

"But you couldn't see the killer?"

Angela shook her head.

"He…it…is never fully visible."

Constantine nodded slowly, then reached into his pocket, pulling out the little treasure he'd salvaged the night before.

"We need to go to Eureka."

"Excuse me?" Angela narrowed her eyes at him.

He stepped forward and held out the piece of paper. It was a rough map on one side, scrawled in a hurried-man's handwriting. Los Angeles and Bakersfield were pinpointed, along with several others all the way up the west coast. On the other side was a list of names and addresses.

"Eureka. It's next on the list."

"Where the hell did you get that?" snapped Angela.

Constantine remained silent, knowing what was coming.

"You didn't. John. You fucking _didn't._"

He shrugged.

"I borrowed it. From our friends at the local P.D. Found it in the dead guy's date book and figured it'd come in handy." For a moment he wondered if it was possible for her eyes to spout flame and scorch him to a crisp.

"I am _not_ seeing this," she said at last.

"Good," said Constantine, stuffing the paper back in his pocket and heading for the table. "Why don't you not see it all the way to Eureka. A hundred bucks says that's where the next sighting of Malone will be."

* * *

_The Red Light_

_Eureka, C.A._

_October 14, 2005_

_11:22 A.M._

Walter Bryce was not a nice man. Never had been and likely never would be. Charlie stared down at the cheap map he'd shoplifted from a roadside convenience store and sighed. After his failure with Ben he was tempted to just give up on the others, get out and save his own skin. He still didn't understand why he had to be the one to warn the others. Probably because he was the only one who still believed.

Still, he'd always had a special place in his heart for Walter, one filled with a distaste more acute than anything he felt toward the others. For one, Walter was anything but good-looking. At six foot three and a staggering three hundred pounds, Bryce was a hulking mountain of a man. He shaved and oiled his scalp and wore many chunky rings on his porky hands. He seemed completely oblivious to his own looks and acted as though he were the most in-demand man on the planet.

Charlie sighed again, folded up the map and got out of his stolen car. He knew he should start looking for a better mode of transportation soon—the police would have a lead on this vehicle already if they were halfway useful. But there simply wasn't time. No time for any convenience or comfort, just time for traveling—for running, warning, and hiding. It was what Charlie had spent the majority of his life getting good at. He was a master now.

He stared up at the building looming before him like a garbage bin in a trash-filled alleyway. A falling-down awning proudly announced "Topless Girls Seven Days a Week" in peeling nylon letters. This was the worst part of town, a fitting place for Walter's residence. The man had always had a liking for anything illegal or unsavory, especially when it involved sex. Charlie was not surprised in the least to see his former comrade's current place of work. He steeled himself and went inside.

The interior of the club was filled with a perpetual haze of smoke, so thick he could barely see three feet in front of his face despite the fact that it was not even noon. Loud bass music drowned out the low babble of conversation between a few of the regulars, and the lights glowed a low red. A slinky blonde in a bikini top and mini skirt greeted Charlie at the door, leering at him between red painted lips.

"Can I help ya, mister?"

Charlie found himself grasping for the list in his pocket, the list of names and addresses they had each agreed to keep.

"I…I…yeah. I'm looking for Walter Bryce. I understand he owns the…establishment."

The girl flipped her long hair over one shoulder exposing a collar bone that looked as if it was about to poke clear through her translucent skin and fluttered unnaturally long eyelashes at him.

"He ain't here right now."

Charlie gulped.

"Do you…do you know when he'll be back?"

The girl shrugged.

"No idea. He comes and goes as he likes. We don't ask questions."

"Okay," said Charlie, forcing himself to breathe slowly. "Well…um…can you tell him that…Charlie came to see him."

The girl took a step forward and poked one long red-lacquered nail into the center of his chest.

"You got it. Anything else?"

Charlie backed away. She smelled of alcohol and perhaps marijuana.

"Tell him…tell him it's time to go." He spun on his heel and all but ran out of the club. There was no time for him to do any more here.

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	11. Rain

Author's Note: So guess what, guys? You finally get your fluff. I know you've been waiting for it…

* * *

Chapter 11

_Bread and Roses Inn_

_Eureka, CA_

_4:09 P.M._

_October 14, 2005_

The hotel was small but comfortable, and a welcome rest from the long harrowing trip on the highway. The weather had turned bad nearly an hour into the drive and traffic had immediately come to a standstill. What should have been a two hour drive had become nearly six and everyone was at their wit's end by the time they made it to the small roadside inn.

The rain beat down outside, a steady rhythm, calming and somehow ominous at the same time. There was a distinct puddle forming outside the window, turning the scraggly looking flowerbed into a swamp. Angela sighed, gathered the files spread before her on the bed, and pulled the blankets up over her legs, shivering a little. There was a knock on the door to the adjoining room a moment later, and she sat up, looking absently out the window.

"It's open."

Constantine breezed in without a word and sat on the bed beside her. Angela gave him a look; he had the distinctly confusing habit of invading her personal space.

"I thought you were asleep," she muttered, looking at the floral pattern on the bedspread. He'd changed into a gray t-shirt and sweat pants, and she bemusedly found herself wondering if he owned any clothes besides this and his perpetual suit, tie, and coat combo.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"What gave you that idea?"

"I told you to get some rest…you said you would."

He snorted.

"You said you were going to take a nap yourself." He gestured to the papers still partially falling out of the folder on the bed beside her. "Looks like good bedtime reading."

He swung his legs up onto the bed and stretched out on his side, facing her. Angela caught her breath, torn between rolling over and moving closer to him.

"I tried," she muttered at last. "Couldn't sleep."

Constantine smiled grimly at her and leaned up on one elbow so he was practically breathing down her neck. She shivered.

"It's this damn rain. It always makes them louder. Makes the blackness darker." He startled her with a brush of rough fingers on the side of her face, her jaw.

"John?"

He drew back abruptly.

"Sorry."

Angela took hold of his wrist, pulling his hand back toward her. He was right, there was definitely something about the rain that made the shadows in her mind come alive. The aching emptiness that was the memory of Isabel had been nagging at her for the greater part of the afternoon, the pricking phantom of tears at the corners of her eyes.

"Don't be," she said after a moment. She reached up and fingered a rebellious lock of hair that had worked its way into his eyes.

His dark eyes followed her fingers for a moment, then he shook his head and turned away.

"Angela…"

She brushed a finger under his chin and turned his face back toward her, then couldn't manage to find anything to say. Her throat was suddenly painfully tight.

"No, you're right." She sighed. "It's like…everything hurts…deeper now. I feel…empty inside. As soon as the sun goes down I can hear them, whispering in my ear…the minute I let my guard down. Damn it, John, I'm just…so tired."

In one languid, fluid motion, he rolled toward her, took hold of her shoulders, and slipped a leg over her hip. Angela caught her breath, unsure of how to take it. He had never been so blatantly physical before, but he always wanted to be, she could feel it hidden just under the surface of his movements. He leaned in, lips barely brushing her neck as he spoke.

"If I told you you'd get used to it, I'd be lying." He ran a hand through her hair, cupped the back of her neck. "How do you think I got to be such an ass?"

Angela ran a hand across her eyes, fighting tears.

"You're not an ass, John." She laughed, then swallowed hard. "_Xavier _is an ass."

Constantine snorted and turned his face into her neck again, his breath tickling her ear as he spoke.

"If I'm not an ass…then what am I?"

"You're…" Angela shivered, pushing him back so she could see his face. Somehow she managed to lose her train of thought every time she met his gaze. "…a shit," she managed at last.

He laughed at that, a full-out chest-laugh which ended with a mild fit of coughing. Angela frowned at him.

"I think…" he gasped, "I'd rather be an ass. At least then I'd know you considered me to be sentient."

Angela elbowed him, shaking her head.

"You know I didn't mean it like that." She sighed, falling silent as he ran his fingertips down her bare shoulder and arm. "Why did you come in here? You can't really be that interested in my 'bedtime reading.'"

"Thought you could use some company." Angela narrowed her eyes at him; he was never this…well, sweet. Constantine sighed. "All right…maybe I wanted some company too."

Angela was struck dumb by this confession, suddenly unashamed at the sensation of tears running down her cheeks. Wordlessly, he reached out and brushed his hand across her cheek.

"John…"

"Get some sleep," he muttered, voice completely devoid of any emotion.

She just stared at him for a moment, torn. Mostly she wanted to ask what he meant by all of this, whether he was finally starting to open up to the possibility of a relationship with her. But she'd learned that pushing him only resulted in an argument, and frustrating as it was, she was just going to have to wait for him to come around and decide on his own. She sighed and moved a little closer, resolving to leave it at that.

He slipped one hand under the covers and ran it down her back, rubbing gently. Angela gave him a questioning look, and he wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her in closer still.

"You're weird," she muttered into his shoulder. "Since when do you get like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like…this. Nice."

"Since I got tired of being an ass all the time." He laughed.

"All the time?" She put her arms around his waist, deciding to go with it and enjoy it while it lasted. "Does that mean you still want to be an ass sometimes?"

"Yes. Now go to sleep before I change my mind." He softened the remark with a light kiss on her temple, then closed his eyes, decisively ending the conversation.

Angela sighed and gave in to her exhaustion. She knew she would more than likely wake up alone as ever, but for the moment she had the warmth of his body and the sound of his heartbeat to quell the sounds of the storm still raging outside.

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	12. Red Light

Author's Note: This one's short and sweet. If you want more, go and read my oneshot "No Turning Back," or check out my Mummy stuff. I've decided I'm going to be updating this fic every other week now, because it seems like people need more time to read in between updates.

So guess what, guys? You finally gave me more than 10 reviews on that last chapter. That means that if you do it on this one too, I'll write a oneshot based on your suggestions. :dangles bait: You know you want it…

Anyway, thanks a million to everyone who reviewed, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

WARNING: This gets slightly graphic and pretty gross. If you're going to be offended, don't read. Then again, if you've been okay so far, you should be fine with this.

* * *

Chapter 12

_Dark. Loud._

_A crowd, smelling all of sweat and alcohol and far-too-strong perfume. A bawdy, sensuous smell, impossibly arousing and disgusting at the same time. The smell of many people all too awake and aware._

_Flashing strobe lights, purpleredgreenblue. Pulsating like the crowd concealed within their shadows. _

_People dancing like there's no tomorrow, sequins and cheap alcohol masking the reality of a life harder than the concrete which is its stage. _

_Too crowded, not safe. Must sneak in through the back, avoid the bouncers and the girls eager to do service at the front door. _

_A back alley behind the club, recklessly unguarded. Security is not a priority here. What comes in comes in, onesizefitsall._

_A back door opening quietly, smeared and smudged with the grease of ages—blood? The spice of life, plastered on the door like a million flies meeting their deaths at the mercy of a cruelly invisible pane of glass._

_Inside, a small back hallway, dark and stinking. A bathroom in a corner, the toilet overflowing with some unknown foulness. The smells of raw sewage and vomit perfume the thick air._

_A room at the end of the interminable hallway, dark and cramped. A bed and a small table covered in congealed microwavable food and empty beer bottles. A man sitting on a couch, tall and large, a hairy bear belly sticking out from under his soiled white wife-beater. _

_The man grunts, half passed out from alcohol poisoning. His skin has a bluish cast to it, oxygen deprivation. He struggles to breathe even in his state of semi-consciousness._

_Something runs into the table, knocking over glass bottles with a clang. Something invisible. Something material and yet utterly ethereal. _

_The man snuffs in his inebriated stupor, tries to sit up, falls back. Knows that there is something wrong here and yet is utterly powerless to do anything about it. Powerless as always, incapacitated by his own greed and amazing narcissism. _

_Another crash, a bottle shatters. The sound of metal grinding against leather and then something appears in the dim light. A long blade, machete-like and gleaming. Coming closer. _

_The man gets up, stumbles, catches himself on the table and gets a handful of broken glass. Swearing, he falls to his knees, bleeding._

_The blade dives at him with purpose, guided by a hand unseen. He screams as it meets his flesh, there is the sound of bone breaking and then he is on the floor, thrashing as the crimson spreads, staining the gray carpet black in the shadows._

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	13. Knowledge

Author's Note: So…I decided that I will post today instead of waiting another week. Maybe I'll work it like this—an update every other week no matter what, a weekly update if I get 10 reviews. Sound good? So, you guys did give me ten again last chapter…so now you get to make suggestions for a oneshot. I've already said I won't do slash or terribly graphic smut…I will do fluff or humor though. So…be creative.

Oh, and...thanks for 100 reviews. You make me feel very loved.

* * *

Chapter 13

_The Red Light_

_Eureka, CA_

_October 15, 2005_

_11:29 A.M._

The club was uncharacteristically quiet, closed down by police officers and Crime Scene tape outside both doors. The employees stood around looking sullen, and every now and then a confused patron could be heard arguing with, sometimes swearing at, the guards in the street.

Constantine stared blankly at one of the dancers who was rather obviously making eyes at him and attempted to keep his mind on the case. He was used to attention from women, usually enjoyed it as much as the next man, but at the moment all it did was serve to make him uncomfortable. It had been a very long time since he'd felt anything other than a sort of bored lust for anyone that he almost didn't know how to approach his emotions. And emotional confusion was the last thing any of them needed on a case like this.

"This way," said Angela over her shoulder, turning back toward the main entrance and motioning for Constantine to follow.

They made their way out past the stiff young police officers guarding the front entrance and around the side of the club. A narrow alleyway was mostly concealed behind a pair of large green dumpsters overflowing with trash. The smell was overpowering; it made his stomach roll dangerously. John Constantine was not ordinarily squeamish, but somehow his defenses seemed to be lacking in efficiency lately. It was almost impossible to tell that this waste-filled area contained a door in, but it did.

"The killer came in through here?" asked Constantine quietly.

Angela nodded as she picked her way through. She'd described her nightmare to him on the way over in vivid detail, and he felt almost as though he was seeing the crime through her eyes. The dreams were taking a toll on her, he knew, and he regretted leaving after she'd fallen asleep. He'd been tempted to stay, but too afraid of the implications such an action would have.

The door into the back of the club was so grimy it could have blended in perfectly with the ground had it not been vertical. It opened with a nasty screeching noise, the sound of metal grating on metal like nails on a chalkboard. Angela winced, and Constantine felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her. He stepped in front of the officer who'd opened it and took hold of the door, his hand hovering over the small of her back, not quite touching as Angela went through. He was disgusted with himself for acting so protective, but the gesture seemed natural somehow.

Inside, a toilet had overflowed all the way down the hall, raw sewage and rotting vomit matting the carpet. Angela led the way down the hall, covering her mouth with a hand and walking quickly. Weiss was standing with another officer in a small room at the very back of the club. As they entered, Constantine could see a body slumped between a ratty couch and a sticky table covered in broken glass.

"Do we have an I.D.?" asked Angela, all business.

Weiss nodded and came over to meet them.

"Walter Bryce. He owned the club, as well as a few other…less than respectable establishments."

Constantine nodded silently. He'd been expecting this, as he knew Angela also had. Walter Bryce was the next name on the list he'd found at the Bakersfield crime scene, in the date book of the as-yet unconfirmed Ben Skinner.

Going over to kneel beside the body, Constantine felt his stomach twist. The man smelled of alcohol; even his blood reeked of it. He had the feeling that this man wouldn't have lived much longer anyway, but there was still something wrong here. He detected a sort of latent astral image of the killer, like bad karma in a former war zone. There was definitely a supernatural element to this case; he was sure of it.

"Same killer," said Angela, leaning over the body opposite Constantine.

"Same MO," said Weiss. "And get this. Yesterday morning, before Bryce came in for the day, guess who showed up here looking for him?"

"Malone?"

"Bingo."

Angela nodded slowly, then shook herself.

"Let's get out of here. I've seen all I need to see."

* * *

_Bread and Roses Inn_

_7:38 P.M._

Back at the hotel, Constantine sat on the bed and puzzled over the list of names once more. They had to be related somehow. He was nearly certain that this was the list of victims, but he had no idea how they were related.

Maddie Neese, a mental patient.

Ben Skinner, a traveling salesman.

Walter Bryce, the owner of a club.

Several more names.

The connection _had _to be there, but so far the only common link was Charles Malone, who seemed to show up in the vicinity each time. Still, Constantine got the sense that Malone was more of a pawn in this plot than any player with actual power. Whatever was killing these people was much more malicious than a man with an uncontrollable temper.

There was a knock on the door, and Constantine hastily shoved the piece of paper back into his coat pocket.

"Who is it?" he called without bothering to get up just yet.

"Housekeeping," came Angela's voice through the door.

"Hi, Mom," quipped Constantine, opening it for her. Angela rolled her eyes at him and brushed past, sitting on the bed without asking.

"Got a call from the precinct," she said briskly. "News."

"It's like Christmas," he answered dryly, leaning toward her. She glared at him like she was ready to get up and walk back out, and he decided he'd better behave just a little nicer. "Do tell."

"Malone's name appeared in an airline record this morning. It seems he's flown to Oregon."

"Using his own name?"

Angela shrugged.

"He doesn't seem to be covering his tracks very well. Maybe he wants to be caught. Or wants us to follow him to something else."

Constantine nodded slowly but said nothing, sensing she wasn't finished.

"There's more," she said predictably. "My superiors at home feel that this case will be best handled by the Oregon PD now. I've been asked to return home as soon as possible and leave the case in their hands."

Constantine sighed. This was a predictable, if not favorable turn of events.

"Are you going to?"

"Hell no."

"Then that wasn't the only news."

"Forensics results are in from the second victim. And we have a murder weapon this time."

"Oh, _exciting_," said Constantine, voice completely devoid of emotion. In truth he was more than glad to have an excuse to keep talking to her, but there was no way he could let that show. It just wasn't…well, _him. _"Scalpel-happy doc there. Next-day results."

"John…"

"Okay, morbid humor aside…" He sat down beside her, leaning over to look at the papers she was holding. He noticed with some satisfaction that she did not move away as she had before when Weiss had been present.

"Morbid humor aside, it's definitely the same killer. Same MO."

"And? What does this tell us that we didn't know before?"

"There was one small difference between this death and the first."

"I can't stand the suspense."

Angela narrowed her eyes at him, shook her head. He couldn't tell if she was annoyed with him or amused.

"Autopsy results show that Neese was killed by a bone saw most likely from the Ravenscar morgue. But the weapon was never found, understandably, as it would be easy to simply take it back to the morgue and dispose of it in hazardous waste. Skinner was killed with a much less specialized saw, causing the bits of bone and tissue that we observed at the scene. The saw was found under the bed in the victim's room and has been identified as one of the hotel's maintenance tools. There was also a large knife recovered from the scene at the club. It is believed to be the weapon used to murder Bryce, though an autopsy will confirm it."

Constantine nodded thoughtfully. There was something off about this killer. Too much evidence left behind for a case like this.

"Fingerprints?" he asked hopefully.

Angela shook her head.

"You think there would be?" she countered.

Constantine shrugged.

"Oddly enough, I do."

"So you think the killer is human?" She looked up at him, leaning closer, and he felt decidedly uncomfortable.

"I…yes. And no. Whoever it is is disposing of the murder weapons, not taking them away. That's risky. If the killer were purely supernatural…there would be no need for weapons."

Angela nodded slowly.

"So you think…what? A supernatural being using the body of a human?"

"I think that's likely, yes."

She sighed, looked at the floor.

"But then…if the killer is possessed…he…or she…might have no knowledge…"

"Exactly."

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	14. Jurisdicktion

Chapter 14

His fingers played lightly across her chest, stopping to tease the soft skin between her breasts, then moved down to her stomach.

Angela gritted her teeth and arched into his touch. She wanted him more than she had ever imagined possible, and the feelings were nothing short of frightening in their intensity. He was hard against her, she could feel it, and the knowledge made every cell of her body burn with desire. She grasped him by the hips and shifted against him a little. "It's all right. Go ahead."

Just kidding.

So, no one gave me any suggestions for the oneshot except that you all appear to want a bit of J/A. That in mind, I've started a piece which you will hopefully be seeing very soon.

Review offer still stands—10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks. If I get 10 reviews for another 2 chapters, I'll write you guys another oneshot.

Enjoy.

This bit of extreme randomness brought to you by a sneaking suspicion that no one ever reads my author's notes.

* * *

_Bread and Roses Inn_

_Eureka, CA_

_October 15, 2005_

_11:35 P.M._

They had gathered in Angela's hotel room to discuss their options now that it appeared Malone had left California and moved further north. Constantine and Weiss stood on opposite sides of the small room, as far away from each other as could be managed in the tight space. Angela sat on the bed—symbolically, it seemed to her—in the middle. The tension in the air was so thick she felt she could reach out and scoop it up had she room enough in her palms.

"You are aware," said Weiss irritably, "that if Malone has in fact crossed state lines, this case will most likely be passed on to the Oregon police department."

"Yes," said Angela grimly, staring at the map spread out on the table in front of them. She knew that this should be the point at which they simply let it go, allowed it to be someone else's problem, and yet she knew that would be impossible. She'd seen too much carnage already, too much bloodshed, too many lives lost. She also knew that another set of investigators had little prayer of solving such a case—not that she much considered herself up to the task, but at least she wasn't kidding herself as to what they were dealing with here.

"Hell," said Constantine, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen, "it was never in my juris-_dick_-tion to begin with."

Angela snorted at that despite herself—it was unprofessional, yes, but the territory wars between precincts had grown childish in her eyes years ago.

"So now we're going to turn around and go right back home," said Weiss definitively. "We have no place on this investigation anymore, and I'm sure I've got a shitload of legitimate things needing attention on my desk at the precinct."

Angela stood at this, incensed. The word "legitimate" had hit a nerve.

"Like what, Xavier? Football games which need watching? People are _dying _and right now we've got the best set of leads. We can't just give up."

"Sure we can," argued Constantine harshly. "Label the case 'unsolved' and turn our backs on it. Bury it in the base of the filing cabinet and pretend we never knew it happened. Or didn't you know that that's standard procedure in our beautiful free country?"

"Now that certainly isn't—" started Weiss.

"But it is, Xavier," insisted Angela, at once realizing what Constantine had been trying to do. "You've always scorned those who do it, and now you're suggesting that we bend over backwards and join the ranks of the rotten."

"And what do you suggest we do?" asked Weiss, sounding uncertain for the first time in the conversation.

"Go along," said Angela firmly. "Follow Malone until we can get a better handle on what's going on here."

"And just ignore our orders?"

"No," she continued, "we'll acknowledge them. We'll offer our services to whoever has been given the lovely task of picking up the case."

"And if they don't want our services?"

Angela sighed, steeled shoulders.

"Tough luck. We're along for the ride whether they like it or not. Now if you two will excuse me, I'd like to pack. Oh, and book a flight for us while you're at it."

* * *

_McDonald's_

_Eugene, OR_

_October 16, 2005_

_12: 16 A. M._

Charlie had gained a little time by risking the flight. He could feel it. This was a move his pursuers would not have expected—well, the human ones wouldn't have, anyway. Maybe, just maybe, he'd have time to warn them all.

It was cold in Oregon, colder than he'd expected, and he was running out of cash. He'd bought the plane ticket with the last of his large bills; his pockets bulged with ones, though he knew they wouldn't last long at the rate he was going. He still had hundreds of miles to travel if he was going to have a prayer of warning them all. Another flight would be in order, and he didn't know where that money was going to come from. He definitely didn't have time to get a job.

Charlie sighed. There was no time for anything anymore. This would almost certainly be the end of him, but it might just be worth it if he could get there in time—it might just be the redemption he needed.

Olivia Marquez worked making French fries in McDonald's. She was the youngest girl Charlie had ever spoken to, far too young to be involved in all of this. She'd dropped out of high school, never bothered with college—now her future was sealed. A lifetime of minimum wage and unflattering uniforms soaked in sweat and grease.

The door creaked loudly and banged against the opposing wall as Charlie pulled it open and made his way inside. Instantly his nostrils were assaulted with the smells of stale ketchup and uncleaned restrooms. He gagged and clapped a hand over his mouth. It was well past midnight, and everyone looked dead-eyed. He could see Olivia behind the counter, her back to him, her long hair matted and plastered to her back. She was leaning over a pan of yellow fries, shaking the oil off of them.

Charlie made his way to the nearest cash register and forced himself to look the cashier in the eye. He felt a stab of anxiety suddenly, though he knew it was unfounded.

"Olivia!" he called, earning himself several odd looks. Unwanted attention was the last thing he needed right now, but it was perhaps the only way to get his information across.

She whirled, recognized him. He saw it in her face, in her eyes, though her dark skin never paled, her painted lips never tipped to betray emotion one way or another.

"Olivia, listen to me."

"Sir, you're going to have to leave," said a burly man standing behind the counter. "This establishment is for customer's only, and it's well past closing time."

"Olivia, you've got to get out."

"Sir, leave at once or I am calling the police."

Ice surged through Charlie's veins.

"It's happening again. Get OUT!"

"Sir, you really have gone too far." The man's hand reached for the phone—Charlie could see his fingers pressing down on the keys—9-1-1—as if in slow motion.

He turned, bumping hard into the counter, and stumbled out the door.

* * *

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	15. Junk

Author's Note: For those of you who were wondering, that cruel little snippet of mine was actually from the sequel to this fic. So…stay tuned and keep reviewing…the more reviews I get, the faster I post. The faster I post, the sooner we get to the sequel. The sooner you get your smut.

Anywho…the oneshot is called "Shattered" and has been posted for about a week and a half. Sorry for the confusion if you didn't see it.

Remember-10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks. If I get 10 reviews for another 2 chapters, I'll write you guys another oneshot.

* * *

Chapter 15 

_Arcata Airport_

_Eureka, CA_

_6:22 P.M._

_October 16, 2005_

"Hey John!"

Constantine looked warily up from the shelf he'd been examining. There was no one in sight but the clerk behind the counter and a couple of halfbreeds looking at airplane pillows.

"Heyyyyy John!"

A tap on the shoulder. He turned the other way and was confronted with a pair of familiar brown eyes peering out from below a mop of unruly curls.

"Chas?" The face split into a grin ear to ear and bobbed up and down in an enthusiastic nod, curls shaking every which way. " 'The fuck--

"Thought you'd be glad to see me," chirped the halfbreed, moving to stand on his other side.

"Yeah, kid, sure." In truth it was utterly unnerving to run into what Constantine considered walking proof of his failure as a mentor, and on top of that at a time like this. He'd come here to get away from the others after their flight had been delayed yet another three hours, making it a record midnight haul up to Oregon. He didn't need this right now.

"You want a robotic vacuum that'll clean your house while you sleep?" asked Chas eagerly.

Constantine raised an eyebrow.

"'Cause they've got one of those here, if you wanted it. Glasses to find your lost golf balls, too. And action figures of the president."

"_Jesus_, no, I don't need one of those," said Constantine. The store ought to have advertised junk, it had so much in stock.

"Just thought I'd try and help you."

Constantine shook his head again and picked up a pair of dog shoes, examining the flimsy pieces of felt out of sheer amusement.

"That what you're here for? To help me?"

"Yeah, actually. With the case."

"You my guardian angel now?" The thought was downright disturbing. He hadn't expected to be hearing from Chas for a while at least.

"Hell no. But I've gotta warn you."

"Warn me of what?"

"The killer. It's not who everyone thinks it is."

"No kidding. Tell me something I don't know." Constantine put the dog shoes down and moved on to a ball of frightening looking prongs which claimed to be a head massager.

"It's someone close to you."

Constantine's blood ran cold. He had suspected as much, but to be told so outright was disturbing. And he still had no idea—for the first time in his life, his surefire instincts didn't seem to be working.

"Balthazar?" asked Constantine, spitting the name like a vile substance. He'd deported the halfbreed, yes, but a demon could still possess a person without ever leaving Hell.

Chas started to say something else, but then a strange look came over his face. He jerked around like a spooked puppy.

"Look, John, I gotta go. I can't tell you any more."

There was the sound of footsteps behind him suddenly, and Constantine turned to see Angela entering the shop holding a takeout bag from one of the airport restaurants.

"We're boarding soon," she said matter-of-factly.

Constantine took the bag out of her hands and whirled back to find Chas, but the halfbreed was already long gone.

* * *

They were greeted at the airport by a group of uniformed officers and several local squad cars. The man in charge introduced himself as Chief Morton, giving them each stiff handshakes and suspicious glances. He was an older man, red hair graying around his sideburns, and so red in the face it appeared as though he might keel over from a heart attack at any given moment. Constantine sighed, earning himself another glance and a disapproving cough from Morton and Weiss respectively. This was exactly what he had expected, unfortunately. It had been his experience over the years that law enforcement was becoming more about egos and less about protecting people. They were clearly not wanted here, able to help or not. 

"We understand that the case is technically still yours," said Morton formally. Constantine sensed there was an inevitable "but" coming here. "But we'd like you to know that the Eugene police department is more than able to deal with this case on our own. We'd like your report, of course, but as far as aiding in our investigation—" He paused here for a rather sickly sounding chuckle, "You folks might as well just go on back home where you're needed."

Constantine yawned rudely in the man's face—it was the middle of the night, after all.

"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered, just low enough for the words to be indecipherable.

"I beg your pardon?" said Morton, wheeling.

Angela rolled her eyes at him, and Constantine had the sudden elementary-school-boy urge to continue showing off for her. Still, he had the feeling that this particular display might end up costing them all more than it would gain for him.

"We thank you, Captain," said Angela, an edge of barely concealed distaste evident in her voice, "but we'll pass on the return flight for the moment. I'm sure you understand. We'd like to see this killer caught as much as you would."

Morton frowned, cocking his head rudely toward Constantine and leaning closer to Angela as though she were his confidant. She took a step back, looking positively nauseated.

"By the way," said the older man in a plain stage-whisper, "no one ever quite explained to me what he's doing on this case. It may still be your jurisdiction, but he's got no business here as far as my people are concerned."

Angela gave Morton her worst look, and Constantine felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the gesture. There was a time when he'd found that glance turned on him at every third word out of his mouth. It was nice seeing it directed somewhere else for a change, and especially on his behalf.

"Consider him a hired professional giving council on the case," she answered at last.

Morton took one final look back and forth, rotating between Constantine and Angela. His expression changed comically fast, between distaste and a sort of sickeningly covetous curiosity. He looked like a mime, though Constantine, trying to be a complete set of comedy/tragedy masks.

"Very well," he said at last, "so long as there are no liability issues." He paused and gestured at the closest squad car. "We will speak again at a more…agreeable hour. In the meantime, my colleagues will take you to your arranged lodging. I trust you will enjoy it."

Constantine wasted no time in making his way over to the car, holding one of the back doors open for Angela—hey, he could be charming when he wanted to be, or so he liked to think at least—while Weiss got in front next to the driver.

"Does that mean I'm going to get paid for this?" he asked, scooting around to sit next to Angela in the back.

She gave him another look, though there was a definite warmth to this one. She was annoyed, yes, but more fondly than anything else.

"What gave you that idea?"

"You said I'm a trained professional. Professionals tend to get paid for the services they provide."

"Ah. Services. That's what you call the things you do."

Constantine shook his head at her, then put on his best deadpan face.

"Depends what things you're talking about."

The childish side of him, the side that had been coming to the surface frighteningly more and more often lately was hoping she'd laugh, or maybe even try to elbow him. Instead she just shook her head and turned to look out the window. Constantine sighed again and looked out his own side as the lights of the city flashed by outside. It was raining lightly, and clammy. The kind of night that made a person want to curl up by candlelight—or preferably with someone else—and read or talk or something else both pointless and sappy. Constantine mentally chided himself as they pulled up to the hotel. Much as he wanted to be with Angela, the thought still scared him. Recently he'd been catching himself doing—and worse feeling—things he'd thought he'd left behind long ago.

There was undoubtedly something strange about this case.

Maybe several somethings.

Maybe it was something in the air.

* * *

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	16. An Ultimatum

Author's Note: So this is where I take a moment to plug _The Constant Gardener_, because it is an absolutely amazing movie. All fan-girling aside, it's definitely one of the best films I've ever seen. If you have time this weekend, I'd definitely recommend it.

Remember-10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks. I don't know that I'm going to be able to do one-shots for the next three or so weeks, because of my current show…but I hope you guys will still review, and I promise you'll be rewarded after rehearsals are over.

* * *

Chapter 16 

_Precinct 33_

_Eugene, OR_

_8:31 A.M._

_October 18, 2005_

The office was very small, cramped, and hot despite the cold weather outside. The interior of the building was lined with desks in a maze of cubicles, the muffled sound of voices like monotonous background music. Everyone seemed extremely busy, yet very little work appeared to be getting done. Angela was met at the front by an irritable secretary who demanded to see several forms of identification, then glared at her all the way back to Morton's office. She'd called ahead to make sure the Captain would be in, but he still looked considerably less than pleased to see her. His cubicle was considerably larger than the others, and upon her arrival his large frame was quite wedged into a formidable brown leather office chair. One meaty paw of a hand was jammed against his left ear, almost completely concealing the tiny phone receiver he was currently bellowing into.

Angela suddenly found herself feeling like a schoolgirl entering the principal's office, and decided she didn't like the sensation one bit. Weiss, who had made it quite clear that he wanted nothing to do with the investigation anymore, had remained at the hotel to make a number of "work calls," and Constantine had been nowhere to be found when she'd left. She knew he was probably out trying to sniff down Malone in a place that only he could find, but still she was more than a little resentful that he hadn't even told her where he was off to before leaving. She was also finding, with varying degrees of self-pity and great unease that she missed his presence. As she observed the looking-busy office and Morton's one-sided phone conversation, she continually tried to think of what he would say, what he would do, the little mannerisms that had so irked her upon their first meeting. Angela jumped as Morton finished his conversation with a grunt and slammed the receiver down at last.

"Miss Dobson," he greeted rudely, in the same tone he'd been using with whatever poor soul had been on the other end of that violent phone call.

"Dodson," said Angela politely, clearing her throat. Morton was looking at his desk now, shuffling a stack of papers very officiously. She waited a moment before speaking again, not entirely sure what her purpose here was to be. "Sir?"

"Yes?" He looked up again as though he were the King and she a very perverse fly on his wall. "Sit." One paw was flung at her in a way to indicate the rather pitiful rusted folding chair on the other side of the desk, and Angela was momentarily dismayed at the loss of height advantage sitting would cause her. She decided not to push the Captain's good graces so far as to refuse his offer, however, and after a moment's silent standoff, she obeyed. Morton lent her his attention just long enough to make sure she'd sat firmly in the chair, which creaked quite loudly, then went back to shuffling his papers with the same zeal as before. Angela noticed mutely that he seemed to be making no progress in sorting them, as she'd seen the same ones surface several times without evoking any reaction.

"You wanted my report?" she said at last, wondering what Morton would do if she simply got up and left.

"Yes, yes." Abandoning the papers now, he dumped the entire contents of his quite-full pencil mug onto the desk and began lining the writing utensils up on the surface of his desk according to height. Angela sighed, and wondered whether he was a natural fidgeter (she could have named several of these with very little thought), or whether he simply meant to communicate to her how very little he cared about her attachment to this case.

"Sir," she said firmly, leaning forward and bracing one hand on the front of his desk, "I am going to be quite clear about this. The case so far has been nothing short of difficult and disturbing to the highest degree. If you are to get any benefit from what I am about to tell you, you will need to pay it full attention."

Morton grunted and looked up at last, fixing Angela with beady blue eyes. She steeled herself and resisted the urge to growl at him; there was something so very animal about this man she would not have been surprised had he suddenly tried to bite or scratch her. She thought she would have enjoyed seeing how Constantine would have dealt with this man, but then pushed the idea to the back of her mind, attempting to concentrate on the report she was about to give.

"There have been three confirmed victims so far in this case," she began, feeling like a teacher about to give a very boring lecture to a less-than-attentive class. "Maddie Neese, a patient at Ravenscar; Ben Skinner, a traveling salesman; and Walter Bryce, the owner of a very seedy club called The Red Light."

"The report from your precinct listed four people dead, Miss Dobson," interrupted Morton, as she'd known he would.

"I'll get to that in a moment, sir," said Angela, not bothering to correct his mispronunciation of her name again. She was used to people mucking it up, but 'Dobson' was a new variation, and one she particularly disliked. "The three victims I just mentioned were all killed at night, and all in the same manner. The suspected weapons vary a little, but I think you'll agree that the condition of the bodies indicates the same M.O. for all three." She paused and pulled several photos from the folder she'd brought with her. Morton recoiled slightly at the sight of them, and Angela chided herself for the momentary satisfaction she felt in his discomfort.

"The killer incapacitated all three victims in some form, then cut away the skull just below the nose, removing the brain." Angela paused for effect, watching Morton go slightly green around the gills. "The fourth victim connected to this case, Pablo Fernandez, died in the middle of the day. From a fractured skull. Nothing about that scenario indicates the same killer as the other three."

"But you do, Miss Dobson, have a suspect in this case. A suspect who, I might add, your precinct was quite clear in confirming as the man who murdered Pablo Fernandez." He spoke with the authority of a father chiding a very foolish child. Angela sighed and curled her fingernails into the soft wood of the desk, watching her own knuckles turn white. She'd known this was coming too, and she wasn't entirely sure how to answer. She agreed now with Constantine that Malone was not the right man to suspect, but he was clearly connected and she had no wish to try and explain her real thoughts to this man.

"That's correct, sir," she said at last, looking at the floor. Of course Morton picked this moment to become interested, and grabbed one of the pencils off his desk, making Angela fear for her eyes as he gestured with it.

"But you, Miss Dobson, obviously do not believe that to be the case."

"I believe that Malone did kill Fernandez," said Angela cautiously.

"But you said yourself that the M.O. does not match that of the other killer. You believe there are two killers in at large in this case?"

"I think that is a possibility, sir." Morton stood up as she spoke, towering over her in an obvious attempt at intimidation.

"What makes you think that, Miss Dobson?" he asked.

"Well sir, the um…the way in which the three victims were killed…it points to a sort of mindset of the killer, an attempt to make us…come to certain conclusions." It was a weak response and she knew it, but she still wasn't willing to let this man win.

"And these conclusions—would they have anything to do with the…what did you call him…ah, yes, 'consultant' you have brought into this case?"

"What is your implication, sir?" Angela stood up, giving Morton her coldest glare.

"Your precinct indicated that you have been making some investigations into the occult lately. On a personal level." Morton smirked at her look of surprise, and Angela suddenly felt as if he'd punched her in the stomach. "Oh, yes, Miss Dobson, I am quite well acquainted with your superiors in the Los Angeles office. I was warned ahead of time that you might try to bring this kind of accusation into this case. I can assure you, I will not give it another thought."

"But sir, you have to admit—"

"I don't have to admit anything, Miss Dobson. Make note: I will be giving a full report of your conduct upon the conclusion of this case if you choose to stay. So far it will not be a positive one."

Briskly, Angela took the photos from his desk and carefully placed them back into the folder, holding it in front of her chest like a shield. Morton might very well have the ability to get her fired; she was not in a good place with her superiors as it were. But she was already too invested in this case to drop it, and she had a feeling Morton's crew would do a very bad job were they left to resolve it on their own. As she left, she could practically hear Constantine's voice in her head:

_If you intend to make a full report, you'd better learn to spell the lady's name, asshole._

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	17. Comfort Food

Author's Note: So I actually started a Constant Gardener fic, but now I am still without a category to put it in. I've made the request twice now, so we'll see what happens. If anyone else wants to write a oneshot and request with me, I will be eternally grateful.

Remember-Hmm…just for fun…let's try something new. 10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks. That part stays the same. However if, by some miracle, I should get more than let's say…20 reviews (right), I'll update as soon as I get to that number.

* * *

Chapter 17

_Holiday Inn Express_

_Eugene, OR_

_11:21 PM_

_October 18, 2005_

"We've got problems," said Angela briskly, slamming the door and plunking herself unceremoniously down on the bed. Constantine followed and sat down beside her, grabbing a half-full pizza box from the middle of the comforter and setting it on the bedside table.

"That's a surprise." He'd only just gotten back from a day spent on the darker side of town, trying to pick up a hint of their killer. Angela gave him a look that he wasn't entirely sure how to read. She was agitated, certainly, but he wasn't sure whether she was angry with him or someone else. She just sat staring at him, looking like she couldn't decide whether she wanted to scream or cry. All in all, it was completely unnerving to Constantine. He was shit at comforting people, most especially crying women. Considering the circumstances, he did the best thing he could think of. "Pizza?" he asked, gesturing to the box on the nightstand.

"John…" Constantine noticed that she said his name a lot when he was getting to her, though she seemed to use it equally as a sign of affection and chastisement.

"Problems?" He grabbed a slice of pizza from the box and took a large bite out of it, ignoring the look Angela gave him. He had offered it to her, after all, if she wanted to deprive herself, that wasn't his problem.

"Where the hell have you been all day?" she snapped. She looked awful, Constantine thought with a momentary pang of sympathy. She'd stripped down to a tank top and sweatpants, this time all black. He couldn't help smiling a little at the thoughts _that _brought up, but this obviously wasn't the right time.

"Sniffing out Malone," he said simply. "And yourself?"

"Briefing our good friend Captain Morton on this beautiful case of ours. Searching the airport with a couple of his field officers who were a hell of a lot more interested in looking down my shirt than at any kind of evidence. On the phone with the office back home." She paused, reached out, grabbed a piece of pizza then threw it back down almost violently. "Out looking for you."

"Angela…" Constantine wasn't sure how to respond to this, or how to take it. She obviously cared, cared too much for his comfort, but he was sure in this instance she had to be more interested in the case than anything else. "Problems?" he repeated, on edge.

"Morton is intent on turning this case political. He's going to do nothing to listen to us or aid in any actual investigation. His people will find Malone, arrest him, and call it case closed."

"So that's why we're here. To make sure that doesn't happen."

"But we don't have any authority over them," Angela corrected, picking the pizza slice up again and pinching it between her fingers. "Morton is determined to block our investigation. And so is everyone at home."

"So…what? They weren't going to solve this case before, Angela. We'll do what needs to be done to solve this case." Constantine chanced a hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away and stood up, pacing nervously. He noticed that her hands were shaking.

"Weiss is flying home in the morning," she said at last, sounding utterly defeated.

"Angela…" Constantine sighed. He had nothing useful to say on the matter. They were in a bad place, at least as far as Angela's career was concerned, but as far as he could tell they had no choice but to forge on ahead. He had never had any intentions of sticking with the legal investigation anyway, but of course he couldn't tell her that. Especially not now. "It's almost midnight," he said at last. "Go to sleep."

Angela sat back down on the other side of the bed and shook her head. She was plainly exhausted, but in a way Constantine could hardly blame her. He himself had gone long stretches of time without sleeping just trying to avoid the nightmares. Hers had to be fifty times worse, and yet she still had yet to say a word about them.

"No, thanks. I think I'm going to stay up and work a little longer."

"On _what? _Angela, there can't possibly be anything left for you to do on this case tonight. What are you going to do, stay up all night so you won't have to know where the next murder takes place?" He felt bad the minute the words left his mouth, but it was already too late.

"John Constantine don't you dare tell me what to do." Her voice was soft, low, deadly. He imagined it was the way she spoke to a murderer she was about to gun down.

"We need you on this case," said Constantine lamely.

"Oh, really? So I can tell you where to look for the next body? What am I, your fucking Divining Rod? Put her in bed and see which way she points."

Despite everything that he knew he should think and feel, this struck Constantine as nothing short of extremely funny. The tension in the room was so think he felt he could have cut it with a knife, or maybe a saw, in their killer's fashion. Try as he might, he couldn't keep the smirk off his face. Silently, Angela got to her feet, made her way around the bed, and slapped him soundly across the face.

Constantine resisted the urge to flinch, deciding he'd gotten off rather lightly considering who he was dealing with. The change in Angela's face was immediate. Her anger drained away in an instant, leaving her looking pale and scared. Sure she was about to cry, Constantine did the first thing that came to mind—he stood up and pulled her into a rough hug.

"Sorry," she said softly, her breath tickling his neck distractingly.

"Hey, happens all the time." The sad thing was, it was true. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, hers heaving as she struggled to control herself. The feelings this brought about—a sensation somewhat like a vacuum cleaner being applied to the inside of his stomach—made him want to turn and run. Either that or throw her down on the bed and kiss her until they both died of asphyxiation.

She pulled away after a moment, and Constantine found himself staring at her, absolutely at a loss for words. He wanted to tell her that he was afraid, that he cared more than he'd likely ever tell her, that she suddenly made him sorry for being everything that he was. This was a power that few people had ever had over him before, and every time he'd allowed them to know it had ended badly.

"You need to sleep," he repeated, more gently this time. She nodded, but didn't move. "I'll walk you back," said Constantine, suddenly remembering that her room was at the other end of the hall. Angela just nodded, and allowed him to lead her out of the room. They were silent on the way down the hall, the tension more palpable than ever. Angela's hands shook again as she tried to open her door, and Constantine snatched the cardkey away from her, too anxious himself to watch her fumble.

"Lie down," he ordered as they made their way inside. Angela gave him an odd look, but obeyed, slipping off her shoes and stretching out on top of the covers.

"What are you gonna do, stay here all night and make sure I sleep?" she asked almost a little playfully as he did the same.

"Yes." Constantine moved closer and gently put his arms around her. She didn't protest, didn't say anything at all, but the tension in her face eased a little and she closed her eyes as he worked his fingers over the tight muscles of her back.

He stared at her lips when he knew she couldn't see, and thought about what it might be like if he wasn't—well, the way he was. He imagined running his fingers through her hair, the feeling of her skin bare against his. She was warm, and that simple fact never ceased to amaze him. After a few minutes he was sure she was asleep, but he stayed for nearly an hour anyway, wondering what would happen if he never left.

Finally, Constantine forced his mind back to the case—they had a killer to catch, after all—and made himself get up. He switched off the light as quietly as possible, then turned back, suddenly struck breathless by the sight of her face in the moonlight. She wasn't dreaming, at least not yet, and she looked years younger with the lines of tension in her brow eased.

Without thinking, he leaned over and brushed his lips ever so lightly against hers. She didn't stir, didn't make any sign that she even knew what had just happened. Of course she couldn't have. Constantine sighed and left, feeling suddenly crushingly sad.

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	18. Frozen

Author's Note: The Constant Gardener is an official category on ff.n now, right above this one as a matter of fact. I will love you forever if you go and review my lonely little fic. Oh, and if you wanted to write something…my fic needs company. I don't know how often I'll be updating it, since this is my priority, but rest assured, it will be continued.

Remember- 10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks.

* * *

Chapter 18

_The smells never go away. The air, the employees' skin, every surface in the place is coated with grease, dust, and the smell of old onion juice. From the moment the door opens, the air seems thickened, congealed, filled with the cries of frustrated tired children and the tired how-may-I-help-you smiles of young employees already old enough to know that their only future is in flipping burgers and helping to silently aid the ever-growing health crisis._

_Even in the dead of night, long after the last respectable patrons have left, the smells never go away. By night the little restaurant becomes a dark, hot furnace. The lights remain out to save power, but the fires in the ovens never ever go out. By night, the yellow plastic and smiley faced establishment turns into a dark volcano, shadows stretching under tables and behind the counter, the ovens a red-blue blaze of fat sizzling heat. Making the next day's wares. Always fresh, oh yes. _

_This night the smell is worse than usual. _

_This night the shop is buzzing with gossip. The memory of a strange man with a strange request still bouncing around the walls like a bad aftertaste from a bad fry. _

_This night the airconditioning is out, and though the windows are steamed with tiny water droplets from the near-frosty evening outside, the air inside is so thick with heat it is nearly impossible to move. _

_This night, only one unfortunate prisoner works the ovens, trapped in with the ghost of the man's request. The thought is jarring in her head, clanging around like scrapmetal in an incinerator. _

_Bending over one of the ovens, she brushes aside long curly hair and stops for a second, caught by surprise at the feeling of a draft of air. A draft of cool air. The air in here is like a wall, only moving to scorch, rising up in steamy plumes from the oven. Her task forgotten she turns, peers out from behind the counter and sees the door hanging open just a crack. _

_A breath, caught in mid-swallow._

_There is something very wrong here._

_This door stays locked after closing. Always. Locked for the employees' protection, or so the corporation says, but really, she thinks, to keep the workers in. To ensure that they don't leave just a few moments early. To keep the heat in as well._

_From beyond the counter there is a creak, the sound of something striking one of the metal tabletops. Hard. _

_The girl leans over further, trying to see through the shadows. She contemplates going back into the kitchen, getting a hot poker out of one of the ovens. But this is ridiculous. There is nothing here. There can't be. It is simply windy outside._

_Another noise, louder this time. Closer. Like something out of a bad horror movie. _

_Nearly laughing at herself now, the girl steps forward, away from the counter, searching along the floor. There are rats here, or so she's heard. Rats the size of small dogs. _

_Another draft, another clang, and she's not laughing anymore but crying instead. The fear surges back to the surface renewed with a vengeance. It is cold, and not from the outside. _

_It is cold from within, from the back of her mind, from the place in which the strange man's strange warning resides. It is cold, it is painful, it is frozen into slow motion by the fear and the knowledge of what is actually happening here._

_It is in slow motion that she falls, struck from behind by one of her own hot pokers. _

_It is in slow motion that the knife comes down._

_It is in slow motion that the blood puddles on the floor._

_Nineteen years old, and already frozen in death._

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	19. Evidence

Author's Note: Sorry for the lack of update last weekend. Hopefully things will be a little less insane now. For anyone who didn't see, I posted a oneshot called Risk last Saturday. I'm also working on a humorfic that you'll hopefully be seeing soon. For those of you who said the pace needs to pick up—I know you want action, but there's necessary stuff I have to get in here first. Trust me, you're actually getting plot info, you just don't know it yet. Hopefully this chapter will be a little more to your liking.

Remember- 10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks.

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Chapter 19

_Holiday Inn Express_

_Eugene, OR_

_2:33 A.M._

_October 19, 2005_

The scream was barely out of her mouth when a hand clamped it shut. Another took hold of her shoulder, pinning her against the bed, and Angela kicked out instinctively, managing only to get her legs tangled in the cheap hotel sheets. The hand on her shoulder loosened, and she attempted to sit up, smacking the back of her neck painfully against the headboard. A moment later the light came on with a click, and she found herself face to face with John Constantine, his hand clamped firmly over her mouth, looking as if he didn't know whether to laugh or chastise her for being so clumsy.

"Quiet," he muttered, then released her and sat on the bed, very narrowly avoiding her legs. Angela threw the covers off and sat up, ignoring the way Constantine was eyeing her. He seemed unnaturally interested in her body, even for him.

"John—"

"You were dreaming again," he said calmly, stating the obvious. For a moment Angela seriously contemplated slapping him again. Then she remembered just _what _the dream had been, and all thoughts of anything else were forgotten.

"There's—"

"Another murder," he finished, grabbing her shoulder as she attempted to get up again. She fought back fruitlessly, suddenly desperate to get out of the room. She was freezing, though the heat was on full blast in the room, and her nostrils seemed to be full of some unidentifiable scent.

"There's a restaurant," she murmured, her own voice sounding foreign in her ears. "McDonald's. About a mile from here." She pushed him forcefully away from her and swung her legs over the side of the bed a little too quickly, swearing and grabbing onto him again as a wave of nausea washed over her.

"Jesus," muttered Constantine as she doubled over, digging her fingernails into the knees of her pants. "Don't puke on me."

"Asshole," she grated, managing a shaky breath and sitting up again, more slowly this time.

"Sorry, babe, I'm just not a hold-your-hair-back kinda guy." There was a playful lilt to his voice, but in his eyes he looked truly hurt. She felt bad for what she'd said, but he was being confusing again—one minute sweet, the next as much of a bastard as ever. That alone hurt more than anything he could physically do or say to her.

"Doesn't matter," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "We've gotta get going." She got to her feet and grabbed her coat off the chair next to the bed, then turned back and caught Constantine staring at her again. "What?"

"That wasn't there before," he muttered. Angela narrowed her eyes at him. Why did he care so damn much all of a sudden?

"What?" He was wasting time and had to know it as well as she did.

"Your jacket. When I left you had hung it up in the closet. With the rest of your clothes."

"What the hell were you doing looking in my closet?" It was a stupid question and she knew it, but lack of sleep had made her temper dangerously short, and he was treading on her last nerve.

"Give it to me."

"John!"

"Give me the jacket," he insisted, holding his hands out as if to conjure it from her body. Impatiently, Angela pulled the bulky jacket from her shoulders and thrust it at him, forcing back the temptation to hurl it at his head. She felt like a fussy two-year-old on the brink of a temper tantrum.

"How do you explain this?" Constantine was holding her jacket up to the light like a piece of evidence, pointing suspiciously at what appeared to her to be a wrinkle in the fabric.

"What, John?" She was getting tired of repeating herself.

"This." He brought it under and thrust it under her nose, and suddenly Angela saw what he'd been looking at. The dark fabric was peppered with tiny water marks, like it had been on a person caught out in the rain. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sight, and immediately her brain began working to rationalize this finding into something she knew it wasn't.

"The air-conditioning vent must have dripped on it."

"Angela…it's forty degrees outside. The heater has been running strong all night."

"It still could have dripped." She had no idea why she suddenly felt the need to defend such a stupid explanation; it wasn't as if it meant anything at all, except that there was one more confounding event on a thoroughly confusing case.

"There's no vent over that chair." He was right, of course. There wasn't. Angela shrugged forcibly and all but tore the jacket back out of his hands.

"We'll deal with the mysteries of my clothes later. Now let's get the hell out of here before Morton and his crew get the call."

"Angela—" He started to say something else, but broke off, coughing violently. Angela was hit with the realization that she'd entirely forgotten about his doctor's orders, chalking his palor and irritability up to lack of sleep and stress of the case. He most certainly hadn't been taking it easy, and if she knew John Constantine, hadn't bothered to fill any prescriptions either.

"Sit down," she ordered, her detective's instincts kicking back in. She might be distracted by this case, but she was still more than capable of controlling a situation like this.

Constantine did as he was told, though Angela guessed it was more out of physical necessity than any kind of respect for her authority. Brushing damp hair out of his eyes, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, wincing.

"You've got a fever." As if there had been any doubt.

"I'm fine," he muttered unconvincingly. This statement was entirely undermined by another fit of coughing.

"Lie down," ordered Angela, her heart racing. The rational part of her brain told her that there was no reason for panic, that getting to the crime scene was still her primary objective. But she knew Constantine well enough to know that any show of weakness meant he really was in trouble.

"Crime scene," he muttered, among something else unintelligible, still trying to catch his breath.

"I'll go." Taking hold of his shoulders, Angela pushed him back against the bed.

"No you won't."

"Yes, I will. I'm a big girl, John. I can handle a crime scene." Truthfully she wasn't sure she could, but she didn't have a choice.

"Coming with you," he insisted, and she had to force him to lie back down.

"No," insisted Angela, "you're not. You're staying here, or I'll show Morton that wonderful scrap of paper you 'found.'"

"Bitch," muttered Constantine, but there was no conviction in his voice. Angela gave him her best glare for good measure, then slipped her shoes on and left, shutting the door a little too hard behind her.

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	20. Presents

Author's Note: So guys. **18** reviews till **200**. Think you can do it this chapter? I'll write you some smut if you do. Oh, and I'll also love you forever.

10 reviews, next Saturday, less than 10, a week from next Saturday.

I posted a oneshot called Serenity (no, I wasn't attempting to rip off the movie) around the beginning of last week. Check it out if you haven't. There's also a link to the new cover for this fic in my profile. I'm not sure how long that'll take to update, so if you're looking now and can't find it, you might want to try back a little later.

Finally, there's an XFiles bit in this chapter. Not exact lines, but...well, I want to see if anyone (other than Zelda) can find it and tell me what episode it's from.

Enjoy the fluff.

* * *

Chapter 20 

_Holiday Inn Express_

_Eugene, OR_

_4:25 P.M._

_October 20, 2005_

Constantine woke to the sound of the hotel room door closing. It was unbearably cold in the room, and he felt as if some particularly unsavory creature had settled itself in his chest and was stealing his breath. The sensation sent instinctive cold fingers of panic through him, though the rational part of his mind insisted that his imagination was playing tricks. He was past all that now. A light came on beside the bed and he flinched, barely recognizing Angela among the gold spots that were dancing in front of his eyes.

"Sorry," she muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and pressing her hand to his forehead. Constantine pushed her away, little prickles tingling their way through his body from that point as though she'd sent a current of electricity through him. He couldn't be certain it was because of his fever.

Rearranging the pillows so that he could sit up easily, Angela slipped off her shoes and placed the takeout coffee cup she'd been carrying on the bedside table, then curled up beside him on the bed, leaning back against the headboard with her shoulder not quite touching his. Opening the khaki shoulder bag she'd carried since he'd met her, Angela pulled out two white paper bags and handed one to him.

"Presents," she said glibly. "This one first."

It was from a local pharmacy, and a bottle of antibiotics tumbled out into Constantine's palm. He squinted at the label for a moment, then raised an eyebrow at Angela.

"You've been snooping."

She reached into her bag again and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper that Constantine recognized as the prescription Archer had given him back at Ravenscar. He smirked at Angela, glad to know she wasn't above his own tactics when the situation called for it.

"I know how to borrow things too," she muttered, pulling a water bottle out of the other bag and handing it to him. "Take your medicine."

He broke the seal on the bottle clumsily, hating himself for his weakness. The pills were large, and the act of swallowing nearly brought on another fit of coughing. He couldn't seem to stop shivering.

"Shit," he muttered, swiping a hand across his eyes for the tears of irritation that insisted on escaping. He told himself they were simply part of his illness, that they were in no way connected to any emotions. Constantine had built his life around a penchant for facing things most grown men shrunk in fear of, but he'd never been able to deal well with physical pain.

Angela took the pill bottle back from him and set it on the nightstand, then handed him the other bag. This one was warm, and he had the sudden ridiculous desire to curl up with it instead of opening it. Inside was a take-out order—burger and fries—from one of the local diners.

"You're an angel," muttered Constantine, not entirely sure whether he'd intended the sarcasm.

"You're delirious," countered Angela dryly.

"Did you have the fortune of meeting up with our friend Morton?" he asked, suddenly feeling the need for a topic of conversation. Angela narrowed her eyes at him, and he thrust all concentration into unwrapping the burger, all too aware of her gaze burning into him.

"He was all too glad to see me," she muttered, sipping from her coffee cup. She looked drained suddenly, and he was reminded of the fact that she'd been up nearly all night.

"What time is it?"

"Almost five. Weiss is over at the Precinct, working with Morton's crew. Not that it matters." She paused, looked at him, then down into her coffee cup. "You've been out cold. Slept like the dead. Scared me."

"The crime scene—the usual?" Constantine couldn't seem to get full sentences to form in his head, and the food seemed to be turning to rubber in his mouth. Angela looked blank for a moment, then regained her composure.

"Oh—yeah. But um…listen." She took another sip of coffee, set the cup down and began playing with her fingernails, picking imaginary pieces of dirt out from under them.

"What?"

"We've got a more serious problem than we thought. Morton's after Malone. And I think he's closing in. There's an eye witness report from one of the employees at that McDonald's—Malone came barging in a couple of nights ago looking for someone. That someone just happened to be Olivia Marquez, our most recent victim. She wasn't there when he attempted to contact her, and was forced to leave after becoming rowdy when another employee threatened to call the police."

"So?" Constantine had heard the same report himself, but had made very little of it besides the fact that Olivia Marquez was the next victim, a fact he'd already gleaned from Skinner's list.

"There's more. This morning Malone got on a flight to Salem. Morton's already passed along the description to the Salem P.D. They've got a crew waiting for Malone at the airport." She paused again, looked at Constantine to see if he was following. He was having a hard time concentrating on her voice through the pounding in his head. "The minute they arrest him, our trail is gone."

"Shit," muttered Constantine, suddenly catching on.

"Exactly."

"We've gotta get on a plane." Constantine sat up further, swung his legs over the side of the bed, but too quickly. Another fit of coughing brought his hands to his knees, and for a moment he thought he tasted blood. Pain lanced through his chest, and when at last his breath came back he was struck by the sensation of tears in his eyes and Angela's arm around his shoulders.

"We're not going anywhere," she said firmly, taking him by the arms and pushing him back against the bed.

"'Got to," gasped Constantine, still trying to get his breath back.

"Listen to me, John. Malone got on that plane this morning. There is no way we are going to be able to catch up with him. We'll be even more useless if we're too sick to function. Now get some sleep."

She was right and he knew it, but he hated to admit it. He hated being confined to bed, wanted to get back on the road more than anything else. More than anything else, he hated the thought of spending more time alone in the cold room. But at the moment he didn't appear to have a choice.

"So…do I at least get a good night kiss?" He wasn't sure where the words had come from, was sure they must be fever induced, but somehow they slipped out before he managed to stop them. Angela narrowed her eyes at him, as if trying to decide whether he was serious.

"You're sick," she said quickly, then seemed to reconsider. "But I'll take my chances." Angela leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then got up and went out of the room without looking back.

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	21. Safe

Author's Note: Wow. Thanks guys. So, I know you're wondering where the smut is now, right? It's almost done, I promise. It's just…really hard to do well. So I need a little more time to untangle the good from the bad. Keep an eye out around midweek, maybe sooner.

Remember-10 reviews, next Saturday, less than 10, a week from next Saturday.

* * *

Chapter 21

_Salem Airport_

_Salem, OR_

_11:21 P.M._

_October 21, 2005_

The airport was a ghost town. Pieces of trash lay on the floor like debris in a war zone. The people getting off the plane seemed to scatter as soon as they stepped out of the terminal, disappearing into the air-conditioned false sterility of a place where so many stories collide every day. By the time Charlie reached the main concourse, the only people in sight were the security guards. Even they seemed uncharacteristically on edge, skulking around on the edges of the room, pressing themselves against the walls as if they might blend in if they only tried hard enough, and muttering urgently into portable radios in voices too soft for Charlie to hear.

True, it was the off season. True, not many people traveled this late on a Sunday night. But still. There was something not-quite-right about this silence and detachment. It felt isolated. Not the tired lull of a day well-spent, but the breath-holding limbo of action interrupted. The very furniture seemed to pulse with energy, mostly dark. Charlie walked as quickly as he could, half expecting to wake up dead at any moment.

As he passed the empty gate seating areas, his Sight began to kick in for the first time in years, showing him all the horrors of the day with the good sucked out. The images appear half-formed before his eyes, like negatives that are meant to be developed.

"_Do you think we'll ever see Dad again?" A little girl, crying and cuddling a teddy bear with one eye missing and stuffing oozing out like blood from just under one pink felt-lined ear._

"_He's in a better place." A man in a dark suit, speaking to a woman who obviously has nothing left. She clutches a shredded piece of tissue in one hand, twisting it around so tightly that it begins to go to pieces in her fingers. She looks down at it in horror, then, seeming to reach some kind of decisive turning-point, roles it viciously until there is nothing left of even this small comfort._

"_I'm sorry sir, but it's the law. You are going to have to go back." A man and his three children, looking thin and lost and scared. Their deaths before them in the form of a little red stamp on a thin piece of official-looking paper. Somehow sensing what is going on, the children scream and run. The man looks like he wishes to do the same._

Shaking himself, Charlie looked at a clock on the gate wall and realized he'd been standing there for nearly twenty minutes. His bag had slipped from his shoulder and was lying unceremoniously on its side at his feet, looking like a defeated homeless body. He bent down to pick it up, shivering at the sudden sensation of something brushing a light hand across the unprotected back of his neck. Charlie jumped and turned, poised to hurl his bag at whoever it was, but the only sight that greeted him was the plastic smile of Ronald McDonald, sitting cross-legged on a bench nearby.

"Going fucking crazy," he muttered to himself, though he knew very well he was not. "Thinking kids' statues are attacking me." Then he realized that this would probably be preferable to the very real danger he was still running from, and the fact that he was wasting even more time standing here seemed to slam him over the head and jar him into action. Suddenly very angry, he turned and faced the statue head-on, glaring at it. Without thinking, he plopped his bag to the floor and kicked the statue. The plastic splintered with a sickening crunch, leaving a gaping whole just between the smiling red and yellow eyes. Charlie bent and picked up his bag and then, with a more purposeful air, continued on down the corridor.

The irony of the fact that he was finally traveling somewhere after so many years of captivity played across his mind despite the situation, and Charlie found his thoughts wandering again as he passed into the outer part of the concourse. Restaurants beckoned from all around, beautifully colored and glossed products designed to make bakery smells at the perfect time for attracting customers called to him from behind barred entrances. The gates looked like cages all of a sudden, and then like the Mental Hygiene Ward at Ravenscar. Oddly, they were the most comforting thing Charlie had seen at this strange airport. He had the sudden urge to crawl inside of one and lie down for a nap. Certainly nothing could get to him in there.

He was thinking of the others as he finally made his way past the baggage claim and toward the main doors. Maddie Neese had been the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend, particularly in the cold sterility of Ravenscar. They hadn't spoken since they'd been there, or not aloud at least. But she'd been there all the time, the steadying presence in the room next door, reassuring in the remnants of what was left of his Sight. Charlie thought of the man at the car dealership, lying broken and bleeding in the dusty lot and his stomach tightened. Ben Skinner, perfect blond hair and clear blue eyes gone, only a bloody mess remaining. Walter Bryce, left forever to wallow in his own immorality. Olivia Marquez, cursed beauty, her destiny decided by those who should have been there to protect her.

"Mr. Malone?"

The voice made Charlie jump. He'd barely been seeing what was actually in front of his eyes. The uniformed cop had stepped from out of nowhere, and for a moment Charlie's surprised mind wondered if this man had actually managed to master the art of merging with the walls.

"W—what." It wasn't a question.

"I understand you're a very popular man, Mr. Malone. Wanted by quite a few people now."

Charlie felt his gut tighten. He contemplated fighting, running, attempting to get to the others. But it seemed too hard already, too likely to fail. He hadn't managed to save any of the others.

"You're going to have to come with me now, Mr. Malone." The cop pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

Charlie looked at the ground and saw the broken eyes of his fallen comrades. His stomach turned over dangerously, and he realized that he couldn't face them anymore. His days of attempted redemption were over.

"All right." As he held out his hands, Charlie thought that perhaps a jail cell would be the most secure location of all. After all, any sentence would be better than what was awaiting him out here.

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	22. Witchcraft

Author's Note: So I have to say I was disappointed last week. It kinda hurts going from 24 reviews in 48 hours to barely ten. (The last two were from people I harassed for them.) I dunno, maybe you're all as busy as I am, but it's really depressing to think I lose as much sleep as I do over this fic for a very small audience. There's not all that much left of this fic, and I'm debating whether or not I should write the sequel I have planned. I want to complete this series, but not if nobody's going to read.

Remember-10 reviews, next Saturday, less than 10, a week from next Saturday.

The smut fic is up, if you haven't seen. It's called Clichés.

(Hey, check it out…the date of this chapter is today!)

* * *

Chapter 22 

_Precint 33_

_Eugene, OR_

_10:26 A.M._

_October 22, 2005_

"We have Malone in custody," said Captain Morton, throwing down the phone victoriously. The receiver bounced a few inches and came to a clunking rest, knocking over the pencil mug. The contents skittered across the desk like so many loose rats, but Morton didn't seem to notice. "In custody!" he repeated, shaking a meaty paw in Angela's face. She recoiled, feeling more than a bit nauseous. Her heart was thundering in her ears, and she was vaguely aware of Constantine's hand brushing the small of her back. He and Weiss stood behind her, like body guards witnessing a meeting between two military commanders.

"That's um…that's good to hear," said Angela, wishing she sounded more convincing. Wishing she could turn around and ask Constantine for advice before making the next decision.

The calls from the precinct had awakened all three of them, and Angela was still angry that Morton had found it necessary to telephone each separate room. She told herself it would have been better if she'd left Constantine in his forced convalescence, but he'd insisted on coming and she hadn't had the heart to blackmail him again. There was something comforting in his presence, contrary to every rational cell of her brain.

"Since the murderer has been caught," said Morton officiously, "this case is closed. Your services here will no longer be required. Thank you for your time." He nearly spat in her face on "thank you" and Angela felt and overwhelming impulse to wipe her cheek.

"I uh…" Again she wanted to turn around, but knew this wasn't a time she could simply pause for a powwow. "Thank you for all your help on this case. We're…we're greatly indebted to you." She could practically hear Constantine snort behind her, hoped she was imagining it. But the words did their job. The lines of suspicion around Morton's eyes softened just a little, and he picked up the receiver and pencil jar, suddenly seeming to notice the mess he'd made.

"Only doing my job," said Morton, straightening his tie. The look in his eyes suddenly reminded Angela of the field officers of the previous day, and her stomach churned dangerously.

"Well," she said abruptly, at last allowing herself to take a step back. "We'll be getting on the first plane back to L.A."

"Would you like one of my people to arrange tickets for you?" asked Morton, suddenly the picture of courtesy. Angela nearly smiled. It was amazing how little flattery made the falsifications go down.

"No, thank you. If you'll excuse us, we have packing to do." Angela had to force herself not to run from the building. Outside it was cold and clammy, and she cringed at the sound of Constantine coughing again.

"I'll deck him if he so much as looks at my girl again," he muttered in her ear. Classic Constantine deadpan. And you never could tell whether that secret ingredient was a trace of sarcasm or a pinch of truth stirred into the mix. For a moment, Angela seriously contemplated slapping him again, just for being so damn confusing. Instead she settled for simply pretending she hadn't heard.

"So that's it then?" asked Weiss, looking thoroughly skeptical.

"Aren't you happy?" countered Constantine. "Thought you were going home anyway. Now at least you get to add one to your resume."

"And you're perfectly happy with all of this? What about your theory?"

Angela forced herself to shrug, silently praying that Constantine had caught on enough to go along with it.

"I was wrong." As she turned to hail a cab, Weiss stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"I know you, Angie. You don't give up this easily."

Angela frowned, climbed into the cab, and slammed the door in his face. It wasn't until he'd climbed into the front seat that she spoke again.

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."

* * *

_Holiday Inn Express_

_Eugene, OR_

_12:31 P.M._

_October 22, 2005_

"You know, 'Morton' is just one letter away from 'moron'," said Constantine, coming into Angela's room and sitting on the bed without asking. Several of the shirts she'd folded to pack fell off, and she found herself resisting the urge to hit him for what seemed like the tenth time already that morning.

"Yes, and 'John' is a slang term for 'toilet'," she said coldly, kneeling at his feet to collect her displaced laundry.

"Ouch." Constantine gave her his best hurt look. Angela snorted and threw a shirt at his head, thinking despite herself that they were acting very much like a bickering married couple. Frightening thought indeed. "I do something to piss you off? More than usual?"

"You should be in bed," insisted Angela, though she didn't really want him to go. "But since you're here, you can help me. Fold that." He was staring at the shirt as if it might bite him.

"I am in bed. Or on a bed. Want to join me?"

"John…I think we've had enough of that, don't you?" Impatiently she snatched the shirt from him and wadded it into a corner of the suitcase, not bothering to fold it. The neat-freak in her only went so far, and now was not a time to be a stickler. "You played along with me earlier," she said at last. "Thanks."

"Yeah, well, Weiss was right. For once. You don't give up this easily. I figured you'd either lost your mind or had some kind of plan I don't know about. So what's it gonna be?"

"I think I'll plead insanity." Angela sighed and sat down beside him, abandoning the packing for a moment. "Feeling better?"

"Does it matter?" he asked roughly. His eyes told her he wasn't used to being asked, and wasn't sure he liked it. Angela smiled a little to herself.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Because we're going to Salem in search of some witchcraft."

Constantine looked at her sharply, suddenly turning serious again.

"Tell me you're not thinking about doing what I think you're thinking about doing."

"We've got to break Malone out. You know it as well as I do. That paper's not specific enough for us to find them all without another lead."

"You know we'll be breaking the law if we do that. You'll lose your job."

Angela sighed again, more heavily this time, and nodded. She knew Morton would be more than happy to send in that damning little report of his, and misspelling or no it would get to the right place eventually.

"I know. But this is bigger than my job. You know it is. And I…" She paused again, bit her thumbnail. She was almost certain she wouldn't have lasted long on the force now anyway, but that was the last thing he needed to know at the moment.

"What?"

"It doesn't matter. You with me on this?" She stood up and went over to the other side of the bed, using her suitcase like a shield.

Constantine nodded silently, and Angela slammed the lid shut. In her mind, she heard the doors of a prison cell sliding home.

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	23. Bail

Author's Note: Now that I'm finished writing all of these chapters, I want to speed up the posting of them so we can to the sequel. So I propose a new system. **As soon as I get to 20 reviews, I'll post the next chapter. Otherwise, it'll be a week between updates.**

Oh, and if there are any Chas fans who haven't seen it…I wrote a fic. It's called Fate.

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Chapter 23

_Salem, OR_

_October 24, 2005_

_11:21 A.M._

"He's being held at the station in town," said Angela, snapping her cell phone shut. She'd spent the past half hour on hold, pretending to be an investigative reporter looking into the Charles Malone case, as it had come to be called over the past few days. Already the case had begun popping up on the radio, in side columns of the newspaper. They'd even seen a tabloid in an airport newsstand claiming that aliens were beheading people.

"How far?" asked Constantine, spreading out the map Angela had gotten from the attendant in the airport rental garage. She'd insisted on driving, as usual, though she looked worse than ever. It was hard to think that they'd only been on the case for two weeks; it seemed an eternity since the first body had been found.

"I don't know. You're the one with the map." Keeping one hand on the steering wheel she reached over and pulled a pen from her bag. "Mark it."

Watching her drive, Constantine smiled silently. Weiss had left them at the airport, after telling Angela quite determinedly that he could not support her decision to ignore their orders, and was in serious doubt of her judgment at the moment. Constantine had barely resisted the urge to slap him, but getting arrested ten feet away from airport security certainly wasn't going to free Malone and find their murderer.

"All right," he said after a moment, tracing a decidedly jagged and somewhat inaccurate line on the map. "About five miles north. Just um…stay on this road for a while, then you should start getting signs."

"Says the man who is perpetually lost," said Angela, smiling just a little.

"You always like this?" asked Constantine, folding the map back up. It wasn't going to be much help anyway.

"Like what?"

"You know a guy for a month and you start writing his life story."

"I'm a detective, remember?" said Angela. "I have access to your darkest secrets courtesy of our wonderful government."

Constantine shook his head and stared out the window. It was a depressingly gray day in which everything seemed to be dying. Appropriate. It suddenly struck him as ironic, that he'd immediately written Angela off as weak when they'd first met. It had been a long time since he'd paid enough attention to anyone else to go beyond a first impression.

"So what's your plan?" he asked at last. He knew she must have given at least some thought to what they were doing, though he hadn't pressed her about it.

"Honestly? I don't know." Constantine looked over and suddenly noticed that her hands were shaking on the wheel.

"Well, we're going to have to come up with something, because we'll be there in a matter of minutes, and walking up to that desk saying 'Please, would you let this man go so he can lead us to our demon killer?' probably isn't going to work."

"All right. So your plan would be…what, a jail break?"

"Bail?" asked Constantine, ignoring the gibe.

"Twenty thousand. I'm sure they'd like to hold him indefinitely, but they haven't been able to come up with any more than circumstantial evidence so far. Not that it matters. I don't know about you, but I don't have that kind of money hidden under the mattress."

"I think I can work something out," said Constantine noncommittally. Somehow he couldn't see Angela being impressed by the fact that he'd made almost his entire livelihood selling relics for ridiculously inflated prices to desperates in his line of work.

"How?"

"We can't let Malone know who we are. If he knows we're following him, who knows what he might do."

"You don't think he'd work with us?" asked Angela hopefully.

Constantine gave her a look. She shook her head.

"So we bail him out anonymously. Sit back. Wait for him to make his next appearance."

* * *

The cell was cool and dark. It smelled of things unnamed, things full of grief and fear. But the smell was faint, far off in the walls. A scar, more than a wound. More than anything else, the cell was quiet.

Closed.

Safe.

Charlie leaned back against the wall and let the voices wash over him again. They sounded muffled now, almost comforting. They were chaotic, pulsating. But they were safe now, like background music. Something to remind him that was alive, that he was human, that he was awake and not stuck in some perpetual nightmare that had become his live. His very existence.

The guilt was a little nag in the back of his mind, but it was easy enough to ignore when he tried. He'd done his duty, after all. He'd warned them. But nobody wanted to hear. Crazy old Charlie Malone, the leader gone invalid.

They'd respected him once. There had been a time when they took his orders without question. When they'd risked their lives for him without being asked. When every single one of them had trusted him implicitly.

Batty old Malone.

The one who'd let them all down.

Who'd gotten the others killed.

Who was going to get the survivors killed as well.

Suddenly he had the overwhelming urge to get up. It was as if someone else was influencing his thoughts, for suddenly his emotions were not his own. He had to avenge them. Had to make this stop. Had to stop being selfish. Had to get out. Charlie dug his fingernails into his palms.

He was so lost in thought he barely noticed the officer standing outside, the cell door sliding open.

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	24. Paradise

Author's Note: I posted a Halloween fic yesterday called Crumbs. It's kinda a drabble, but check it out if you want.

**_Next update at 20 reviews, or Tuesday, November 8._**

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Chapter 24

_Movie Paradise_

_Salem, OR_

_October 24, 2005_

_3:00 P.M._

There was nothing even half decent playing. But then, it was obvious that the theatre had seen better days. Though the peeling metallic paint suggested shiny new movies, the building had been retired to a second-run dollar theatre. The entire staff seemed positively comatose, and Constantine found himself wanting to check and make sure they weren't zombies. Sometimes he thought he wouldn't be surprised to find Corporate America taking advantage of the undead. Instead he settled on buying a large soda and a tub of butter-drowned popcorn from the concession before returning to the small lobby table he was sharing with Angela.

"If that gets within a foot of me—" she warned, without looking up from the screen of her cell phone. Constantine couldn't see it from his vantage point, but he had a feeling she was playing games on it. Ridiculous though the whole situation was, he couldn't blame her. They'd been sitting in the rundown lobby for nearly three hours now, waiting for Malone to show after a couple of very lucky phone calls had located their next potential victim.

"Not hungry?" he teased, though he knew it was probably a very bad idea.

"Not for that poison."

Constantine could practically smell his own skin smoking under the look she gave him. He sighed and glanced back at the concession, where a tolerably attractive blonde was pouring drinks for a couple of pimply teen boys. He didn't really care for her, he'd had enough of beautiful empty headed women, but he found the looks Angela gave him as a result of his staring rather pleasing.

"Would you stop that already?" said Angela, snapping her cell phone cover shut rather more violently than necessary.

"What?" asked Constantine, feigning distraction.

"Oh, come on."

"I'm doing research!" said Constantine, suddenly noticing that she was eyeing his popcorn tub. "We have no idea which one of these women might be Katie Maynes."

"Right," said Angela, rolling her eyes. "Research. I'd bet on the one taking tickets." She cocked her head in the direction of a graying redhead, well past her prime though obviously once very pretty. Angela sighed and turned back across the table to look at Constantine, who was once again lost in his popcorn. "Gimme some of that."

"Thought you didn't want any," teased Constantine, but he slid his chair around the table and watched as she attempted to pick out the least buttery pieces. At this proximity he found himself distracted by her despite his best efforts. Her hair was loose and curly, and for a moment he was tempted to run his fingers through it.

"John."

Constantine jumped a little at the sound of her voice, realizing suddenly that he'd been staring. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Angela held up a hand for silence. He realized she was watching something over his shoulder. Slowly, Constantine turned to see a man arguing with the woman at the ticket window. Constantine started to get up, but Angela stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"Wait."

"What? We're gonna miss him."

"No we're not." Angela gestured back to the window. "He's coming in. He wouldn't be making such a fuss over buying a ticket if he didn't need to get inside."

Constantine looked again and realized that she was right. Malone appeared to be gesturing with his wallet. The theatre, for all of its shortcomings, seemed to be overcompensating in security. Customers weren't allowed more than two feet inside the lobby doors before being accosted by a militaristic ticket-taker.

As they watched, Malone flipped the salesgirl the bird and strode firmly into the lobby. The angular old ticket-taker came huffing and puffing up, looking as if he might explode should anyone disobey him. Malone attempted to walk by, but was intercepted.

"Excuse me sir," said the ticket-taker in a voice that sounded as though it might have been dropped out of any one of the second-run movies showing at the theatre. "You'll have to show me your ticket now."

"I'm not here to see a movie," said Malone, "I just need to speak with someone over there."

"You'll have to buy a ticket to come inside, sir," insisted the ticket-taker. "This lobby is for customers only."

"I'm not buyin' a fucking ticket to come in and talk to my friend," said Malone, his voice rising.

"Then you'll have to leave," said the ticket-taker, and began reaching for the radio that was hooked onto his belt. Malone didn't wait to be told again. Instead, he roughly pushed the ticket-taker aside. The man crashed through the ropes and landed hard on his back. He didn't get up.

"Katie!" Malone made his way toward the blonde behind the concession. She looked up, and her eyes widened as recognition dawned. The cup she'd been filling with soda overflowed, little dark droplets forming on the pale skin of her arm. Suddenly she didn't look so young anymore, or so attractive. She looked downright scared.

"Charlie. You can't be here. And that man—god, what did you do?" She sounded like she might cry.

"Katie, listen to me. You've got to get out of here. You must've heard by now."

"I did, I just…Charlie, is it true? The other, they're all—" Katie broke off, her voice going thin.

"It's true. And you're next if you don't get the fuck out of here."

A couple of uniformed security guards came running up to the ticket window. Malone whirled, his eyes going wide. Constantine was on his feet immediately, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. The last thing they needed was for Malone to get arrested again. They had identified the next victim, but Constantine was certain the killings would not stop until the list had been completed.

"Go!" he yelled. Malone gave him a strange look, then took off out the other door. Constantine jumped the barricade to confront the security guards. "There was a man in here! He punched out that guy and then ran into the theatres!" The guards took off up the ramp to the nearest theatre, and Constantine went to join Angela, who was kneeling over the unconscious ticket-taker.

"That was too easy," she muttered.

"He alive?"

"Yeah. Probably got a nasty concussion thought."

Constantine grabbed her arm. "Come on. Let's get out of here before the police arrive."

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	25. Help

Author's Note: Tomorrow's my birthday, so give me lots of nice reviews as a present.

**Next update at 20 reviews, or Tuesday, November 15.**

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****

Chapter 25

_The lights on the marquee never go out. The parking lot is filled with floodlights. The front of the building, every straight surface, is outlined with fading neon tubes, colored glitter shouting to the odd passerby. These flames don't attract many moths anymore. Inside the vacant lobby, tv screens play endless loops of oversaturated commercials to the blind spectators that are the walls. The un-airconditioned theatres are like caves, their screens gaping orifices to the artificial sunlight of the world's B-rate movies._

_Katie Mayne stays faithfully at her post. Nobody ever goes to the late night shows, but the theatre still pays its employees to stand by in case. There is something eerie about the theatre by night, but at least it is familiar, and less silent than her little apartment. There her bags are packed, ready to be taken in the morning. Night is too dangerous. No time for running, most especially from the unknown._

_There is something strange in the air tonight, something electric and crackling around every bend. Slowly, silently, the television screens begin to go out. The last one flickers rebelliously on and off for several moments, the image going all yellow, red, and green in its dying moments. Katie takes in a sharp breath, then shakes herself. Ducks behind the counter next to the soda fountain, where the controls are. A malfunction, surely. The electricity here tends to be unstable. Still, nothing wrong. Nothing out of place._

_A moment later, the rest of the lights dim by stages, until they have died altogether. Emergency systems kick in, and the entire lobby is bathed in a sickly blue light. Up both hallways framing the lobby, the theatres have gone dark and silent. Katie shivers suddenly. There is something wrong here. Something much stranger than a power outage unannounced in the middle of a calm night._

_Ducking back behind the counter again, she reaches for the emergency phone, then thinks better of it. No reason to call security. An awful lot of fuss and explaining to do. Not a whole lot of evidence toward her sanity here. Pride still reigns prime. Calling security for an invisible intruder? Sure grounds for background check. Something she can't afford. Instead she comforts herself with palming the large knife used to slice open packages of popcorn and candy. _

_Across the lobby, something moves. Not a blur exactly, but a displacement in the air. A feeling deep down, pricking at the back of her neck, making the minute hairs there stand at attention like the most cliché scene in a bad horror movie. Breathing hard, Katie holds the knife firmly in her hands and slowly emerges from behind the counter. Best to face whatever is here in the open lobby, where there is a chance of getting to an exit. The concession is a trap. _

_Suddenly there is a sound, something rushing through the air. The flash of a knife blade, blue in the emergency light. White hot pain along her collarbone, but it stops just below her throat as she lashes out with her own weapon. Something is wrong. The attacker has missed its target._

_Groping for something to support herself, Katie dives for the concession again, all thoughts of anything but backup suddenly gone from her mind. Blood flowing too fast. Pain too blinding._

_She stumbles again as something grabs her feet. Whirling, Katie flails a hand toward her attacker again and touches something impossibly wet. In the low light, she can barely make out red on her fingertips. Blood pulled from thin air. _

_Katie manages to make it back behind the counter. Grabs the security phone. Dials the emergency button._

_Is dimly aware of the receiver clattering to the floor before the pain takes over._

_No matter now._

_Help is on the way._

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	26. Hell

_**Author's Note: Next update at 20 reviews, or Tuesday, November 22.**_

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26. Hell

_Movie Paradise_

_Salem, OR_

_October 25, 2005_

_12:01 A.M._

Angela crouched against the wall, breathing hard. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed her mind to somehow make sense of the situation. The air clung to her clammily, sending chilly fingers over her skin. She was somehow without a jacket and this struck her as odd above everything else. She reasoned she had to have come here of her own accord, though she had absolutely no memory of ever leaving the hotel. There was only the dream in her mind.

Wetness on her arm brought her back into awareness and her stomach turned dangerously as she caught sight of the sparkle of blood in the parking lot floodlights. Only then did she register pain, and she pressed the heel of her hand into the cut to staunch the flow.

The sound of sirens nearly made her jump out of her skin, and she was suddenly very aware that she was all but standing in a spotlight. Regardless of how she'd gotten there, she sure as hell didn't have any justification worth a second glance. And there was only one way the police were going to see it.

Small, cold droplets of rain began misting down again as Angela ducked into the alley beside the movie theatre. She was wearing only a tanktop and jeans, and knew already that she was in serious trouble. The cut on her arm was long and deep; she could tell by the flow of blood. For a few seconds she savored the hope that she'd somehow brought her cell phone, but a search of her pockets yielded only dryer lint.

A dry, raspy sound caught her attention, and Angela turned to see a bundle of rags at the other end of the alley starting to move. She tensed, reached instinctively for her gun, then realized that she was entirely defenseless. If she ran out of the alley she'd be caught by the police; if she stayed she would be forced to face whatever was under those blankets.

A head emerged from under the filthy pile, and a face nearly obscured by hair. Angela stood back and held her breath as a man appeared, dressed in all but rags, covered in the filth of the alley. For a moment she managed to convince herself that he wasn't likely to try and harm her, and that even if he did she'd be able to defend herself. She was a cop, after all. Then the man looked at her. And she realized his eyes were glowing red.

The halfbreed lunged forward and Angela's hand flew instinctively to her neck. The amulet was still there, but as the cold metal dug into the palm of her hand she couldn't help wondering just how far its protection would go. Learning to See again was one thing, knowing how to protect herself was something she hadn't even begun to consider. She closed her eyes for a split second, feeling dizzy, and suddenly she was back in the hydrotherapy room, the demon's hands around her neck. She felt her legs give, the grit of asphalt biting into the skin of her knees.

Fighting the blackness of pain and exhaustion, Angela forced her eyes open. The halfbreed was standing over her, its eyes glowing like a pair of hot coals. Angela clutched the amulet as hard as she could, biting her lip as she felt it draw blood. She was dimly aware of the cut on her arm throbbing, and wondered for a moment just how much blood she'd already lost. As the smell of sulfur turned her stomach, the halfbreed's face exploded. Angela fell backward in shock, the pavement cutting into her already-battered hands. Her head hit the wall, and for a moment everything went black.

"Angela." Someone was shaking her shoulders, breathing down her neck. She had a dull sense of recognition through the pain. "Angela, get up. We don't have time for this."

"Fuck you," she spat, as Constantine hauled her to her feet. Her head was still spinning, but the pain had receded to a level at which she could be semi-aware of the rest of the world. The halfbreed was crouched against the wall, clutching its melting face. Its fingers sizzled as they came into contact with the remaining holy water. Struggling out of Constantine's grasp, Angela turned and retched into the alley.

"Come on," growled Constantine as the halfbreed began struggling back to its feet.

"Can't go out there," she muttered, struggling to regain her balance.

"Sure we can," said Constantine. As she watched, he dug around in the pocket of his trench and pulled out another vial of holy water. He doused the halfbreed again and grabbed the creature by the arm, surprising Angela with his strength. He threw the demon out of the alley, and ducked back. Within seconds two police officers appeared, just visible beyond the wall, and began wrestling with the halfbreed.

"Go," said Constantine, and pushed Angela out of the alley. She clenched her teeth and sprinted as hard as she could, too distracted with pain even to pray.

They managed to make it back to the hotel, though the how was all a blur of street noise and nausea in Angela's mind. The world seemed to spin interminably, stopping some time after she was seated on the bed with a wet towel wrapped around her shoulder and Constantine's arm against her back. He was supportive enough, but she could tell he was angry in the tension of his body.

"What the hell were you doing there?" he demanded at last, deeming her recovered enough to face up.

"I…" Angela trailed off, uncertain of what to tell him. The rational part of her brain said she should tell him the whole truth, but she couldn't bring herself to admit such an extraordinary weakness to him. She knew he already thought she was losing her footing in the case, admitting she didn't know how she'd gotten several miles away from the hotel would more than confirm his suspicions. "I had another dream. I went to investigate."

"Without telling me?"

"You're sick," said Angela, though he hardly seemed unwell at all anymore. "I didn't want to wake you."

"Right," said Constantine, the biting sarcasm back in his voice. "And then what? You ran into a door?"

"I—"

"You're not a fucking battered housewife, Angela."

Angela pulled away from him, hurt. She knew she was being ridiculous, and that she'd already violated his trust by lying so blatantly, but the comment still stung.

"You don't know anything about me," she spat. "Not really."

"Okay. Fine." He got up and stalked over to the door, crossing his arms. Everything about his body language screamed war. For the moment, she didn't care. "I do know that you're lying to me. And that it's going to get one or both of us killed."

"John—"

"I'm done, Angela," he said firmly, opening the door. "It's your call now."

"John!" She was painfully aware of how needy her own voice sounded, but she couldn't stand the thought of being left alone. Her entire body seemed to be pulsing with agony, and the eyes of the halfbreed seemed to be burned into her mind.

"Make sure you clean that cut," he said mockingly. "Wouldn't want to get an infection."

He slammed the door, and Angela lay back against the bed, pressing her face into the pillow as sobs shook her body.

* * *

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	27. The Host

Author's Note: I thank you for 302 reviews, but I am fairly certain at this point that there will not be a sequel.

Next update: 20 reviews or Wednesday, November 30th.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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27. The Host

_Hoh Rainforest, WA_

_October 29, 2005_

_4:32 P.M._

Charlie Malone was absolutely exhausted. He'd been on the road without pause for the past week. He was surprised he had yet to be stopped; all he had to do was step into a gas station store to see dozens of reproductions of his own face plastered all over every newspaper and tabloid the country's gossip industry had to offer. His story was always among the nightly news headlines, at least whenever he was fortunate enough to stop in a hotel reputable enough to have televisions in its rooms, that was. The radio in his stolen car kept him updated on police progress hourly.

He wasn't really surprised to hear that Katie was dead, though it brought a familiar chill to his blood. He was painfully aware of the fact that they were nearly all gone. He'd failed again. His only hope now was to find the Host as before, and that was not a possibility that Charlie Malone even wanted to consider facing again.

Still, he wasn't ready to die. Not just yet. He was certain now that if he simply went back to the jail they'd charge him, there was no chance of just waiting in the shadows. It would find him eventually. His decision before had been in a moment of weakness. The guilt that ate at his insides now seemed to turn his blood acidic. He could not rest until he'd made things right again. He'd brought this on all of them, now he was the only one who could stop it.

But first he had one more to find. Kenneth Anderson. Then he could prepare to meet the Host in its home territory. It would be led there. As always.

The cash had finally run out just outside of Salem. Charlie had attempted to buy another plane ticket with a credit card, but the damned computer had pulled up something on his security file. He'd barely managed to get away while the sweet old-lady agent went to fetch her manager to handle the problem. The car had been waiting in the carpool lane outside the airport. Someone had just left the thing running with the keys in the ignition while running across to the curb to help a loved one with bags. It had just been a matter of darting in and turning the key.

He was fairly certain he knew who it was this time. He'd seen the look they'd given him at the movie theatre, seen the recognition in the man's eyes. Theoretically it was impossible to identify a Host until it was killing you, but Charlie had spent the past nine years trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong before. He'd had time to develop a theory in all that brooding. It was the ones who got in the way. The ones who thought they were trying to help and just ended up sticking their noses six feet deep into the wrong person's business.

It was always the ones who snooped.

As he turned onto a little back road lined with forest brush and early snowfall, Charlie turned up the radio in time to hear reports of police tracking him. They'd picked up on sightings of a car matching his stolen vehicle several hours ago. No surprise there. He'd had the car for a week already. It was a miracle they hadn't stopped him already.

Sighing, Charlie pulled a crumpled map out of his shirt pocket and looked at it with one hand while keeping the other on the wheel. He had to keep heading north, until he was nearly in the rainforest. Why anyone would want to be a ranger was beyond him; Charlie hated the outdoors. Had since…since the first time. Why Anderson would want to be a ranger in the same place that it had happened before…that was something Charlie could neither understand nor forgive.

As he turned down yet another bend in the road, something in his rearview mirror caught his eye. A police car, lights flashing, sirens blaring. Charlie swallowed hard. He'd been expected to be pursued, but nowhere near this quickly. He'd figured on having enough time to get to the forest. Find the Host. Or at least find Anderson.

Tightening his grip on the wheel, Malone floored the gas pedal. The street was treacherously narrow, and seemed to nearly double back on itself every few feet. It didn't help that they were climbing a hill. Charlie's stomach bottomed out as he went over a bump and heard the tires screech on the pavement.

"Jesus," he muttered, and suddenly wished he had some of the chewing tobacco he'd so coveted before. It hadn't been on his mind much over the past three weeks, but now the craving seemed the only thing in his reality. That and the fear. Little black spots danced in front of his vision as he struggled on, and suddenly he realized he'd been holding his breath.

Forcing himself to draw in air, Charlie suddenly found his lips moving. An ingrained reflex toward prayer. Weak vital signs from a faith he'd try to stomp out years ago. Suddenly he was back at Ravenscar, but not as a patient this time. He was wearing a white coat and carrying a fancy pen and a pad of official-looking paper. Diagnosing a beautiful little girl who woke up screaming in the night and refused to speak.

Suddenly there was a bang, and one of the tires went out. He wasn't sure what he'd hit, but all Charlie could do was pump the breaks. The car bucked and skidded, finally spinning to a stop with its nose jammed into a rather large boulder on the side of the road. The pursuing police car came speeding around the bend and barely managed to stop in time. Its bumper neatly tapped the back of Charlie's car as it came to a halt.

Breathing hard, Charlie fought the locked seatbelt out of its clip. The door was fairly smashed up and didn't want to budge. Shouldering it painfully, Charlie managed to knock the thing nearly off its hinges. He was dimly aware of something wet on his forehead. Blood. As the officers' shouts began, he dove into the underbrush on the side of the road.

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	28. A Theory

Author's Note: Next update: 20 reviews or Wednesday, December 7th.

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28. A Theory

_Hoh Rainforest, WA_

_October 29, 2005_

_5:01 P.M._

"I have a theory," said Constantine tersely. It was the first he'd spoken since they'd left the airport. He knew he shouldn't be angry at Angela, knew that everything he was feeling was not only irrational, but also detrimental to the case. It didn't change the fact that he could hardly stand to look at her. The fact that she had felt the need to lie hurt worse than anything else. He knew she was probably doing it out of self defense, and he'd given her more than enough reason to have her guard up. But still, he didn't trust easily, and it felt like a slap in the face coming when he'd just begun to consider her safe.

"What?" Angela didn't take her eyes off the road. Constantine wasn't sure whether to take this as a sign of her own impatience, or deadset concentration. Washington roads were anything but friendly at the end of October, and he got the feeling that she wasn't far away from a total breakdown as it was.

"I don't think these are random killings." Constantine turned and looked out his window, but not in time to miss the look on her face. Her left arm was bandaged, and he could tell she was favoring it. She seemed different somehow since the night he'd found her outside the movie theatre. Broken. Like just maybe she'd started to face the reality he suspected was behind this case. She looked vulnerable, he thought, probably because she thought he wasn't looking. And suddenly it occurred to him that that was the problem. He was angry at her for being vulnerable.

"Really?" muttered Angela in a voice Constantine thought rivaled his own trademark sarcasm. "What made you think that? The pattern of the killings, the M.O of the murderer…the little piece of paper you so conveniently stole from a crime scene that has the victims' names and locations on it? They're about as random as a checkerboard."

Constantine sighed, considered for a moment refusing to tell her, or even getting out of the car. But that wouldn't get them anywhere, and he didn't really want to fight with her any more than he wanted to examine the next dead body. It had taken them four days to catch Malone's trail again, the most agonizing four days of his life. The last thing he wanted was to prolong their search.

"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. Constantine watched her swallow hard. "Your theory?"

"I think the victims all have something in common." Suddenly it didn't sound quite so likely anymore. He wasn't entirely sure how to explain. Sighing, Constantine pulled his keys from his pocket and idly began flipping through the keyring of talismen he always carried. "I don't think they're really victims. At least not in the sense of being innocent."

"What's that supposed to mean? I thought you suspected demonic possession." She sounded angry now, and Constantine glanced nervously at her. She was the one driving, after all.

"Possession, yes. But not of the demonic kind."

"Then what? Would you please, just for once, cut the bullshit, John?"

"Nevermind, Angela." Constantine turned and stared out the window again, trying desperately to keep his temper.

Without a word, she brought the car to a halt at a little gravel parking pad which overlooked a small but majestic waterfall. Constantine turned and regarded her coolly.

"Tell me," said Angela, "or we sit here until that last murder happens." Something new seemed to pass over her then, and she shuddered, wrapped her arms around herself in front of the steering wheel. "Sorry," she said again. "I don't know what I was thinking. I just…please tell me. Quickly."

"I think…the killer…is possessed by a spirit. Not a demon exactly. A spirit of justice."

"Thought that was what angels were for," said Angela.

Constantine laughed bitterly. "Nah. Angels just fly around doing the Great Hypocrite's bidding. They don't really give a shit about justice so long as Our Father condones whatever they're doing."

"So…"

"You probably heard about the Bogeyman when you were little, right?"

She laughed. "You can't be serious."

"Let me give you a hint. He's not hiding under your bed."

Angela nodded once, abruptly, her eyes darting everywhere but his face. "You are serious." There was a sort of resignation in her voice that nearly made Constantine want to laugh as well. "You think that um…you think that the killer is possessed by the Bogeyman?"

Constantine just looked at her. "Just about every culture has a Bogeyman, though few people know what the actual creature does anymore. He doesn't hide under little kids beds and grab their feet when they get up for a drink of water. He exists in a sort of eternal limbo; he walks between realms, watching over people. It's the Bogeyman who maintains the Balance."

"But why would he kill people then? And if he exists between planes, how can he possess anyone?"

"No one really knows how. Possession is rare, but it has been known to happen. Occasionally, when a great injustice is done, the Bogeyman needs to utilize a human's body to set things right. It's never been proven, but many have theorized that possession is so rare because he is only capable of inhabiting the most powerful of psychics." Constantine's gaze was unfaltering, and Angela shuddered again, realization dawning on her face.

"Kill the killers," she murmured, to no one in particular. "But then…if you're right…why would we want to stop…this? Whatever it is…"

"If I'm right," said Constantine, "we wouldn't want to. But we need to be sure. And we're running out of time." He looked down at the crumpled piece of paper he'd been holding in his hands. One name left on the list.

"We've got to find Malone," said Angela, and put the car into gear.


	29. Revelations

Chapter 29

_The cabin is quiet by night. The others don't understand it, never could, but Kenneth Anderson likes his privacy. Likes the idea that he's alone with it, that he's beaten it and can face it whenever he pleases. _

_His cabin is small and barren; Anderson hardly owns any furniture. A small night stand, hand cut from wood he harvested himself. Nevermind the laws. Those who protect the forest have a right to take of its blessing for themselves. Payment, in a sense. If it weren't for him and his kind, much of this forest would very likely be gone by now. A bed in the corner, its four posts made of logs. A hardwood chest against the back wall, padlocked and chained so that even Anderson himself will have a hard time getting in should he ever wish to retrieve its contents. A portrait hanging on the wall, seven people, smiling, and looking like the luckiest team in the world. _

_Anderson sits up late this night. For the first time in months he has felt the urge to turn on his little radio, to tune into the dealings of the outside world. Years now he has been without contact, and yet suddenly now…now it is irresistible. _

_On the nightstand, the radio crackles and chirps while among the static officially rational voices keep Anderson appraised of the situation on the Charles Malone case. Anderson's blood runs cold as the detached news anchors rattle off details of the others' deaths. He risks a glance at the portrait above his bed, and a chill runs through his blood._

_As he watches, the door creaks open. Images of the first time flash behind Anderson's eyelids. He is going to go like them. He is the last, and now only Charlie is left. _

_A car chase, says the voice on the radio as Anderson slowly falls to his knees. Badly injured. Escaped into the brush. Anderson's palms come together of their own accord, and before he knows what is happening, his lips are moving in prayer. The right prayer, this time. Body never found, says the radio. _

_Anderson bows his forehead to the floor and shuts his eyes against tears as the door closes again, and footsteps move across the room. He waits for the blow to come, but it never does. Silence. And then a sound Anderson has never expected to hear._

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It was dark and cold, and the smell of wood was all around. For a moment Angela swayed on her feet, trying to get her bearings. In the absence of anything to grab onto, she was forced to fall to her knees as her head swam. In the corner, a radio was on.

After a moment she managed to regain control enough to look up again, and this time she could see that the radio was giving off just enough green light to bring the room around her into a dim shadow of existence.

She was in some kind of cabin, though the whole thing seemed to be empty somehow. She could barely make out shapes of furniture along one wall, but there seemed far too much space in the middle of the floor. Why would anyone want to live in such a place? The entire thing smelled of soil and wet wood, and it nearly turned her stomach again. The pain in her arm was threatening to take over once more and she bit her lip, glad to have any other sensation to focus on.

A strangled sound from the middle of the room made her jump, and she was suddenly aware of a figure kneeling a few feet away from her, bent all the way over to the floor. Her first instinct was to run, but he had to have seen her by now. She cleared her throat, and slowly the man raised his head.

"You…you didn't kill me," he mumbled, still looking at the floor.

"Kill you? Why would I…" The very thought of it sent her stomach into dizzying acrobatics, but she had to admit there was no denying the possibility anymore. This was getting far too strange.

"Because I'm—" The man broke off, swallowed hard. "Because of what I did."

Angela's heart jumped to her throat as Constantine's words came floating back to her. _A spirit of justice._

"What did you do?" asked Angela, groping for an explanation. Anything but what her reasoning told her was the truth. She didn't think she could ever face herself again if it turned out to be true.

"Them." He gestured to something on the wall, and Angela could barely make out the sparkle of something under glass. A picture frame, her detective's instincts told her. "We tried to cheat it. We didn't believe that any of this would actually happen."

"I don't want to kill you," she said, surprised at how desperate her own voice sounded in her ears. "I don't want to kill anyone. I just want to know what the hell's going on here."

Slowly, the man got to his feet. Switched on a light. Opened a drawer in the nightstand and pulled out a gun. Angela flinched, but he was pointing it toward himself.

"Go," he said softly. "You've got to find Charlie. He's in the woods somewhere. I'll do the rest of this for you."

As she turned and bolted for the door, Angela heard a muffled gunshot from the cabin behind her, and then the sound of something heavy falling to the ground.

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	30. Waiting

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** Author's Note: Two more chapters after this. I know it's a longshot, but it'd make me love you forever if I could make 400 reviews with this.**

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Chapter 30 

"John," called Angela, shifting her pack uneasily as they began the sharp climb up into the forest. He was several hundred feet ahead, vanishing now and again behind bends in the trail. She hadn't had the heart to tell him about waking in the cabin the night before. Just that she'd had another dream. The body was strange this time, and didn't fit with the rest of the pattern. A single gunshot wound to the head.

Though it was only late afternoon, the rainforest was already beginning to get dark, clouds gathering overhead. The trees overhung the path and the dirt squished underfoot, cold mud.

"Yeah." He turned back at last, perching long-legged with one foot up on a log.

"You do realize what we're doing here is insane."

"The thought had crossed my mind, yes." The piercing call of an unseen forest bird punctuated his words, a high, mournful note as though nature was already planning their funeral.

"Do you really think that this—"

"Don't you?" he asked firmly, interrupting her.

Angela sighed and paused as she caught up with him. She knew that what she was doing was way out of character for her, even with everything that had happened lately. And still there was something inexplicable about her decision, a pull toward the forest, the feeling that she _had _to come here and follow this path. She could not rest until she had done so.

"I…I hope so." She wasn't sure of anything anymore, to be honest, but at the moment appeasing whatever had taken hold of her body and stolen her rest was of utmost importance. Truth be told she wasn't sure if she even had the physical capability to make it to wherever they were going—she felt lightheaded already and they'd barely been walking for half an hour.

Constantine gave her a look as she stumbled over a tree root for the umpteenth time, grabbing her hands to keep her upright.

"Tell me I'm not going to have to carry you," he quipped, though the worry was evident in his eyes.

Angela shook her head and plunged ahead of him, too tired to come up with a response. The trees grew more dense as they continued walking, huge old growth trees covered in moss that hung down like hair. Branches snaked up toward any opening in the canopy, fingers groping for sunlight and sustenance. As they came to one with several holes in the trunk, Angela thought she caught a glimpse of something moving in the underbrush behind. Something neither human nor animal. Something not quite alive.

"We have to go off the trail," she decided, not clear how she knew, but sure of it nonetheless. There was something here, something in the vibrations of the place. Something calling to her.

She shifted her pack again and stepped off the trail, peering around the tree in search of the movement again. Something was at the center of what she'd been feeling all day; something was giving off those waves. It had to be.

Nothing.

"Angela?" Constantine crashed noisily through the brush behind her, now struggling to keep up. The flash of whatever it had been had given her renewed energy, a strength she hadn't felt in days surging through her veins as the adrenaline spread.

"This way. Do you feel it?"

He nodded, caught up as she tripped again, took hold of her by the shoulders.

"Angela, stop."

She turned to face him, resisting the urge to flinch as he took hold of her shoulders. Her shoulder pressed into his chest, and for a moment it seemed there was an electrical current between them.

"Slow down. Be careful. You can see it, it can see you."

"But I can't—"

"Just focus."

Angela nodded, pulled out of his grasp and continued walking, more carefully. Thick raindrops began to fall, hitting the leaves with little pop noises. The already mushy trail quickly turned slippery, their feet sinking into the dirt. The presence was growing stronger, pulsating. She could practically see waves forming in the air.

She began to walk again, slowly, letting her eyes fall half closed. It was crazy, she knew, to try and walk through a forest blind, and yet she felt she could see more clearly this way. The colors changed and intensified as her vision began to make the crossover from physical to astral. Trees vibrated with life, shimmering luminescent green, covered in jade moss. Eyes peered out from all over the rainforest, beings unseen, hiding in the undergrowth. And something else. Something dark and slithering.

Behind her loomed Constantine's presence, shining brighter than anything else in the area, but swirling with red and black. Angela shuddered, looked away. She could never look at him for long, no matter what her vision. The new Sight was dizzying, and she couldn't hold onto it for long. She paused after a moment, stumbled, fell to her knees.

They were in a meadow of sorts, a clearing in the trees. They had come much farther off the trail in what she'd thought had been a short time—but then she knew that time changed when a crossover occurred. Her entire body shook with exhaustion—any last shred of energy was now gone, as was her connection to the presence.

"Jesus," she whispered, resisting the sudden urge to cry. Her hands had sunk several inches deep in the mud, and her entire body felt cold and clammy.

"Angela." Constantine bent down and took hold of her waist, worry evident in his voice for once. "Can you get up?"

"I…I don't think…"

"Damn it." He knelt down, slipped one arm under her knees, effectively scooping her into his arms. " 'Said I wasn't going to have to fucking do this."

"John I'm sorry," she mumbled, feeling suddenly reduced to complete uselessness. She'd failed again, failed when it really mattered this time. She'd put them both in danger without even thinking, and now they were trapped out here with the killer.

"Quiet," he muttered, carrying her over to a huge old tree. The roots had been hollowed out, blackened and burned away by lightning, creating a hollow large enough for them to sit in. With surprising ease, he knelt down and lowered Angela to the ground, leaning her back against the giant roots.

"Can you see it?" she asked after a moment, shivering. "I…I lost it somehow."

Constantine shook his head.

"No. It's waiting for us. Baiting us. It'll be back."

"So…what now?"

"We wait." He took off his pack and hers, sat down next to her. "As long as it takes."

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Review please! 


	31. Justice

Author's Note: Sorry for the long time without updates, guys. I've been out of town and internet speed was atrocious. So…one more to go after this. Enjoy.

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Chapter 31

_Hoh Rainforest, WA_

_October 31, 2005_

_12:39 A.M._

It was the sound of footsteps that brought Constantine back to consciousness. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was or why his heart was pounding so quickly. Then he realized they were still in the forest. It was raining hard now, and he couldn't seem to get warm. Angela was asleep beside him, her head on his thigh. Silently he cursed himself for falling asleep; he'd meant to stay awake and keep watch. There was no one else in sight, though he was sure he could hear movement all around.

The raindrops made disconcerting noises on the thick underbrush; Constantine would never be sure whether he was hearing the sound of water on an oversized Devil's Club leaf, or warning of an impending attack. It was ironically appropriate, really. He'd managed to conquer the supernatural over and over again, but every time he came up against Mother Nature he seemed destined to lose.

He was almost certain now that he was right; the energy about it just felt that way. And it was just too suspicious that the victims were all so tightly connected. Malone had been trying to warn them all of something, something they seemed all too familiar with. They'd all been in hiding somehow. They knew it was coming.

Again, read all the police reports of Malone's sightings. He'd been trying to warn them of something that had come back to finish them. He knew what was going on here. And he was the only one who'd survived so far.

"John?" Angela's voice brought him back to the present, and he helped her up with a hand on her back. She looked half dead, he thought, and a chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the rain.

"Easy," he muttered, putting an arm around her shoulders, though he was no warmer. "Take it slowly." She was shivering violently, couldn't seem to get her breath. Constantine felt the sudden urge to graze his own knuckles on the bark of the tree they were leaning against. Anything to dull the guilt.

"I'm going to die out here," she said softly, and he couldn't tell whether she was still dreaming. She was probably right, he thought though the words turned his blood to ice. For too long he'd been blinded by hope, hadn't wanted to look where the clues were leading. He should have figured it out back in Eugene, or at the very least at the movie theatre in Salem. Should have done something about it. But that would have been too damning, and so he'd clung to denial. If she died now, it would be his fault for allowing his heart carry him away from the truth.

"Why'd you say that?" he muttered, searching for anything comforting to say. At the moment there wasn't a whole hell of a lot he could come up with.

"They kill the Host," she whispered, and he realized she was still only half conscious. "When it's over. Always. Destroy the evidence."

"No they don't," insisted Constantine, though he knew she was partially right.

"Then why…they told me, John. All the ones before. They all died." She was talking about the ghosts, he realized suddenly. The ghosts of the others who had acted as Hosts for the spirits.

"Yes," he said slowly. "But I don't think…a spirit can't kill anyone, Angela. Not without using another body. The others killed themselves. Or they died of exhaustion. They weren't strong enough."

She shuddered again, and Constantine realized that she was crying. "I don't think…John, what makes me any different? What makes me strong enough?"

He started to answer, but choked on his own words as the sound of sticks breaking very nearby brought his heart to his throat. So it wasn't just the rain. Something alive had definitely made that sound. Something big. Slowly he got to his feet, wishing he had the Holy Shotgun with him.

"Show yourself," he called into the darkness. Probably not the best move, given that they were almost completely unarmed, but he decided he would rather not be surprised by whatever it was. "We will defend ourselves." It was laughable, really, but he was counting on the intruder not to know just how weak they were.

Slowly, haltingly, a man made his way into the clearing. The man whose face had been staring at them from supermarket newsstands for the past two weeks.

"Malone," growled Constantine, though he hardly thought the man posed any threat. Charlie looked even worse than he had at the movie theatre. There was blood caked on his hairline, and his shirt was in shreds. Even in the dark he looked pale.

"You," said Malone, his voice barely a whisper. Constantine realized he was looking at Angela.

"I know you," she whispered suddenly. "You…you were the one…" She broke off, shaking her head.

"What did you do, Charlie?" asked Constantine. He had to be sure he was right. If he wasn't, there was no guarantee that anything would stop.

"I…we…there were so many of them. They were so helpless. There was nothing that could really be done for them…but there was money to be made. We thought if we made them more vulnerable, they'd keep having to come back. Nobody would doubt our treatments, because they were crazy anyway."

"You posed as doctors," said Angela softly. Constantine turned and looked at her, unsure of whether she was reading Malone's mind, or voicing a memory of her own. "At Ravenscar. You said you had a miracle therapy for people plagued by visions of the other world. You just made things worse."

Malone nodded slowly. "It was all going so well…then some of them…some of them died. Some committed suicide. We never…we never intended for anyone to die."

"You opened them up to demonic possession," said Angela. "You treated Isabel."

"Yes," whispered Malone.

For a moment there was silence, then the sound of something else moving not far off. Malone stiffened.

"It's coming," he said, his eyes far off and unseeing.

Constantine whirled to look at Angela, caught a glimpse of something green and glowing through a hole in the tree behind her.

"Stay conscious," he said sharply. "Look at it. It can't control you as long as you know it's there."

"I'm going to die," murmured Angela again, and for a moment Constantine was tempted to kill Malone himself.

"Charlie," he said sharply. "It will find you. You know that. You can stop this."

Malone shook his head, looked at the ground. "I can't do that."

"Why?" insisted Constantine. "There's no one left for you. You knew when you did it that you'd have to pay eventually."

"I—I—"

There was another crack; a rotten tree came down across the path a few feet away, making them all jump. There were tears rolling down Malone's cheeks. Slowly, he pulled a knife from the pocket of his tattered pants.

"Yes," said Constantine. "Make it right."

Around them, the storm was picking up. The forest seemed alive with a fury of its own. Silently Malone sank to his knees. His gaze remained locked with Constantine's as he put the knife to first one wrist, then the other. He didn't even flinch. For a moment there was nothing but the wind howling, and then the forest went still.

It was the sound of Angela sobbing that broke Constantine's gaze at last, and he fell to his knees at her side, wrapping his arms around her. She was nearly unconscious from the cold and horror, but still very much alive. Suddenly Constantine couldn't be sure that the wetness on his face was from the rain.

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Review please! 


	32. Epilogue

_Author's Note: So. This is the real, honest to god, very last chapter. That makes me sad, somehow, even though I wrote it a full two months ago. It's been almost an entire year since I started this fic. It's more than old enough to be my baby. _

_I cannot thank you all enough for reading this and giving me feedback. As someone who would rather be writing than doing anything else, it makes my life to know that people enjoy my work. There will be a one-shot that finishes up this series posted sometime in the not too distant future. After that I don't know when I'll be back in this category again. If you want to read my current stuff, check me out in RENT. And thank you again._

_Daydreamer731_

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32. Epilogue

_November 9, 2005_

John Constantine hated hospitals. His heart rate increased almost as soon as he walked through the automatic sliding glass doors. He hadn't been allowed to see Angela since the incident. The LAPD had been adamant about conducting a formal investigation during the course of the past week, even flying a team up to Washington to question them both. The evidence was insufficient to prosecute, however, and the fact that all of the victims happened to be wanted criminals helped too.

Angela was awake when he arrived, propped up on one elbow and reading about her own case in the newspaper. She smiled and rolled over to face him as he walked in. Her left arm was bandaged up to the elbow, and the bruise on her temple was purpling, but she already looked much better.

"That's old news," he said, gesturing to the paper.

"Is it?" She moved over and he sat on the edge of the bed, taking her good hand in both of his.

"All the victims have been traced back to an experimental therapy group at Ravenscar. There's talk of a separate lawsuit from the patients' families. The case has been…dismissed, due to the…strangeness of its nature." Constantine winked at her.

"I'll bet. I wish I could've seen the look on that poor judge's face…" She trailed off and shook her head, turning serious once more. "God, John, I still can't believe it. How can anyone trust me now?"

He sighed, a fresh wave of guilt churning in his stomach. Still, his worst nightmare had come true—and they'd both lived to wake up again. They'd barely made it out of the forest, but somehow everything seemed to be on their side once Malone was dead, from the weather inexplicably warming up to the team of rangers who just happened to be in the woods during the off season. He freed one of his hands and reached out to finger the amulet resting against the bare skin of her chest. Angela shivered a little under his touch and smiled again.

"I trust you," he said finally.

She just stared at him for a moment, eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

"John…" Angela shook her head, shifted so she was kneeling sideways on the bed, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Constantine flinched at her touch, silently willing himself not to feel it. Her body was pressed firmly against his, and he couldn't deny the thrill it sent through him.

"It's okay," she said softly, and suddenly Constantine found himself hugging her back, one hand at the small of her back, the other in her hair. For a moment he let himself be lost in the comfort of it before the reason he was there in the first place came back like the bad aftertaste of a particularly sweet dessert.

"Angela…" He swallowed hard, trying to find a way to say it that wouldn't, for once, make him out to be the asshole. "It's not that I—I just—I don't even know how. I can't…protect you…from me."

She remained silent, but slowly brought one hand up to rest against his cheek. Much as his instincts told him to run, Constantine simply couldn't bring himself to pull away.

"I need you," said Angela after a very long moment. Her eyes darted to the wall over his shoulder, and she said it so softly he nearly didn't hear. "You're the only one who understands."

"I know," said Constantine at last. "This won't happen again. There are ways you can protect yourself. I should've taught you before. I got careless and I'm sorry. You deserve better. Much better."

"John—"

"I'm sorry, Angela," he repeated. "About…everything. Somehow…I always think that by being an unfeeling bastard I can protect myself…and I always end up fucked. I guess it's about time I learned my lesson." He paused, looked down at the bed, afraid to see her reaction to what he said next. "Maybe I need you there to keep me in my place."

She was grinning when he looked back up, her eyes sparkling.

"Well, I seem to be without a job now, so…"

"Angela—"

She stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"Maybe I want to be there with you."

"Angela…" The words caught painfully in his throat. He looked away again, unable to stand the feeling of her eyes burning into him for one more moment. The thought of what he was about to do was somehow more frightening than demons, cancer cells, and the fires of hell combined. But he couldn't stand to let the moment pass one more time. Constantine turned back, steeled himself, then leaned in and kissed her.

She pressed a hand to the back of his neck, stopping him as he pulled away.

"Well," she said, her face absolutely radiant, "that took you damn long enough."

"I…I'm not good at this," he muttered at last. "I don't do 'nice.' I don't do 'sweet.' Just about the only thing I can promise you is too little too late."

Angela sat back against the bed and sighed. "I don't want 'nice' or 'sweet.' I'm fucking sick of that." She laughed weakly. "I'm not asking you to change for me. Just give yourself a chance."

"Angela…I'll use you. I'll betray you. I'll get you hurt. I won't want to, but I will. Trust me. I'm not a good guy."

"I'll take my chances," she said stubbornly.

Constantine shook his head, not sure whether to be annoyed or relieved.

"What?" She gave him a little half smile.

"You are the most impossible…" He trailed off and shook his head. "You're not gonna leave me alone, are you?" Angela just stared at him. "You really think you'd be happy with me?"

She laughed again, a little puff of breath, and laced her fingers through his. "I already am." She pulled his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

"I…All right." There was nothing else to say. "Wordlessly he got into bed beside her, pulling her into a full embrace. You know…you're too much trouble to leave alone."

Angela laughed and kissed him again. "I want to go home," she said softly.

Constantine ran a hand over her back, feeling rather strange. It took him a moment to identify the feeling. For the first time in years, he felt at peace with himself.

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